


if you'll be my star, i'll be your sky

by g_uttertrash



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Bottom Harry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Magic-Users, Pining, Unrequited Crush, it's brief i promise, just a little bit, literally so much fluff it's insane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 62,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_uttertrash/pseuds/g_uttertrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis smiles in the smuggest, most infuriating way, like he knows every thought filtering through Harry’s mind. He probably does. </p><p>“I thought you were a student, yeah,” Louis says, voice quieter now, leaving Harry to lean over the baluster somewhat to hear. “But I hoped you weren't.”</p><p>(or, Harry Potter AU where Harry takes a teaching post at Hogwarts and gets a little more than he expected when he meets the fit Transfiguration professor, Louis, who looks oddly familiar... Featuring Messrs. Horan, Malik, and Payne as well, along with some familiar faces from the HPverse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. home pt. i

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siriusblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblack/gifts).



> First things first, a huge shoutout to Ren and Leah for organizing this entire thing, they've worked so hard and I appreciate it so much! Secondly, kisses to Amy, Kaylee, and Raina for reading parts of this at different times and talking me down when I started to lose it, you're the best and I love you all so much. 
> 
> I, uh, tried to find a good stopping point and one just didn't come until I was about 60k deep, so here we are! I hope you like it; I had so much fun writing it, even if it did send me spiraling back into Harry Potter oblivion (not that that's a bad thing, mind you). 
> 
> Disclaimer: I obviously don't own One Direction or anyone affiliated with them, nor do I own anything remotely connected with the Harry Potter trademark and franchise. I also am not an expert on astronomy but I tried to do as much research as possible; any mistakes herein are my own! 
> 
> Title is from Gregory and the Hawk's song "Boats & Birds"; I made a playlist for it and you can find it [here!](http://8tracks.com/kingsandthieves/if-you-ll-be-my-star-i-ll-be-your-sky)
> 
> Glossary of certain terms and credit for song lyrics/poetry snippets and things of that nature are in the end notes. Enjoy!! ❤

_“in learning you will teach, and in teaching you will learn  
you’ll find your place beside the ones you love”_

Of all the places he’s stopped to take a breath in the last six months—not the least of which is a monastery in the Himalayas, which is pretty impressive if he does say so himself—England is still his favorite. It’s cold and rainy and utterly, perfectly _home._

Even more so, with the girlish figure hunched over his couch with a book in her lap, slurping up takeaway noodles like some kind of….some kind of _Muggle._

Harry knocks on the front window of his cottage with one knuckle, grinning as the girl nearly leaps from her skin at the sound. When she glances over, a noodle clinging to her periwinkle robe, her eyes widen to an impossible circumference and she shrieks like a banshee wandering the moors (Harry’s seen one; he knows). He just laughs, watching as she scrambles up, nearly spilling her food in the process, and runs to the door.

She flings it open and throws herself at him. “You’re back, you’re back, you’re back!”

Harry laughs, wrapping his arms around her, swaying as the force of their hug threatens to overpower him. “I did write and say so, you know, it shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“I’m not surprised, I’m _glad_.” She swings her straight blonde hair back from her face, releasing him briefly to look in his eyes. “I’m allowed to be happy my baby brother is home.”

“Oh, no you’re not. Not yet, anyway.” He glances around her, as though she might be hiding something behind her back. “Where’s this girl of yours you’ve been telling me about?”

“Oh.” She blushes so prettily, his older sister. “I thought you might want to wait on meeting her, with just getting home and all. You were gone for nearly six months, you know, I thought—time to decompress—”

“Mm-hm,” Harry says, pulling a face at her. “I believe you. Completely. One hundred percent.”

She narrows her eyes at him and he crosses his in response, but neither of them can keep it up and before long they’re laughing, breathless and wild. She pulls out her slim larch wand and wraps an arm around his neck, standing on her tiptoes to do so. “You know Harry,” she says, waving her wand jauntily at his bags. They rise, levitating in the air. “I really missed you.”

He leans over, smacking a kiss against her cheek. “I missed you, too, Gemma.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Even if you won’t let me meet your girlfriend.”

She’s always been better at non-verbal spells than he is, because in one second he’s fine and in the next, his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He glares at her good-naturedly but he doesn’t care all that much, not really. He’s just glad to be back.

The bags follow them through the front door and he’s back home now, for real, for good.

* * *

Correction: He _was_ home for good and he _was_ comfortable and relaxed. Now, the next morning—tongue thankfully unstuck—sitting at the carved wooden breakfast table in the cozy kitchen, staring down at the Howler before him, he’s not so sure.

The return address is Niall Horan because of course it is. It just figures his Irish best friend of an idiot would send him a fucking Howler the day after his return to England. It’s so typical that Harry’s not even surprised, just bemused and curious as to how Gemma will react to the amount of noise about to fill the cottage. Badly, he suspects, but he’s not nearly prepared for it himself when it suddenly bursts open, a cheery Irish brogue exploding in the air.

“MATE, HOW ARE YEH? GLAD YOU’RE BACK! HOW WAS THE WORLD AND BACKPACKING? RIGHT BIT OF CRAIC, I BET. LOTS OF PRETTY GIRLS ’ROUND THE WORLD, EH? THOUGH, I ’SPOSE YOU’D BE LOOKING AT THE BOYS. WELL, I BET THERE’S A FAIR BIT OF TALENT THERE S’WELL AND I’M SURE YOU’LL TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT. ANYWAY! LOOK, I HAD THIS WILD IDEA AND I’VE BEEN HOLDIN’ ON TO IT FOR A WHILE. HIT ME BACK, YEAH? SOON. IT’S IMPORTANT. ALSO, TELL GEM I’M SORRY FOR THIS, BUT NOT THAT MUCH.” Niall’s ridiculous laugh fills the kitchen at nearly ten times its usual volume before the Howler bursts into flame and settles into a neat pile of ash on the table.

From behind Harry, there’s a yawn. “Right,” Gemma says, shuffling into the kitchen in her robe, “tell him he’s _not_ forgiven. Why can’t he just use Floo Powder like a regular wizard?”

“Because he’s not a regular wizard,” Harry says, shrugging. “He’s Niall.” He gets up, sweeping the ashes into his hand. “I made breakfast, it’s on the stovetop. I should go get back to him, the Howler made it seem vaguely important.”

“He’s a prat.”

“You love him.”

She makes a face. “Kinda.”

“Floo Powder?”

“I refilled it!”

Harry sees the truth of that when he goes into the sitting room, opening the jewelry box sitting on the mantel. On top of it stands a pearly pink ballerina, balancing _en pointe_. He twists her body, feeling the resistance of a spring before letting go; she twirls slowly the other way, porcelain eyes closed and long-lashed against her finely painted cheeks, her lips a perfect bow. A tinny rendition of the theme from _Swan Lake_ comes tinkling out and he smiles. It’s still one of the best things he’s ever made with magic.

He grabs a handful of Floo Powder from within the box and kneels down before the fireplace. “Niall Horan’s flat, the fireplace downstairs, Mullingar, Ireland.” He throws it into the fireplace and green flames _whoosh_ to life, Harry leaning back slightly out of habit. He takes a deep breath, shoving his face into the flames; they tickle his neck and cheeks and he can’t help the first noise out of his mouth is a laugh, the taste of ash bitter on his tongue.

“Oi,” Niall says, glancing up from his place on his sofa, polishing his prized broomstick (Harry’s thankful that isn’t a euphemism for something he’d rather not catch his best friend doing). Behind him, hanging off the back of the couch, is an old Hufflepuff scarf, striped in black and yellow like a bumblebee. “Wondered when you’d get that Howler!”

Niall’s flat is an organized mess of clutter and knickknacks. Regular sitting room furniture aside, he has a large shelf crammed with hats—some wizard hats, some not—all in different colors. The wall to Harry’s right is filled to the brim with pictures from their younger days. Even now, a sixteen-year-old Harry with short curly hair and bright eyes waves at the older version of himself with his head in the fireplace. He smiles back at them, especially as one of the picture-Niall’s dives into the frame and rugby tackles Harry’s younger self. In various other places there are a great number of Quidditch pennants, nearly all of them for the Cork team of Ireland, but some of them the national team as well; there’s so much green, white, and orange that just looking at that area hurts Harry’s eyes.

“Yeah, Gemma says thanks for that, by the way,” Harry says.

Niall grins, setting aside his broomstick care kit. “Knew she’d love it. So how was it? The world and such?”

“It was amazing, Niall. I still can’t really put it all into words. I just got back yesterday, you know, and it still feels very strange. Just yesterday, I was in Australia, and now look where I am!”

“That’s the beauty of magic, mate.” Niall points to the fireplace. “You can go into more detail when we see each other in person, don’t want your knees to get hurt down there on the floor for so long.”

Harry’s absolutely sure there’s a great joke in there, but Niall doesn’t give him the chance. “Not that it’s any chore for you, eh?” He laughs that utterly ridiculous laugh that makes Harry smile so often. “That bloke was back the other day, by the way. Asked me to pass on a message to you.”

“Oh, this should be good.” The next time he gets the bright idea to have a one-night stand while on holiday with Niall, he’s going to hex himself. “What did he have to say?”

“That he understands if you don’t feel the same way and he’s sorry, and he won’t try to contact you anymore because clearly you’re not worth his time anyway.”

“Well, that was all really nice, up until that last bit. Guess I won’t be sending him flowers, then.”

“I wouldn’t anyway, mate. He’ll probably just latch on again.”

Harry makes a face. “Sorry he’s been hanging around. If I’d have known, I never would’ve.”

“Yes, you would’ve, because I would’ve made you. So what if he’s clingwrap? You needed to get laid.”

“And look where it got us.” Harry shakes his head. “No, I’m done with that bit. No more casual hook-ups for me.”

“Really? None at all?”

“Nope, not a one. I got it all out of my system on my trip.”

After all, Harry’s eighteen now. Yeah, he’s still young, but he’s been out of school for a year and has already gone around to see the world. What’s left after that, what he really wants to do besides get a job, is settle down. He’s had dreams, though he’s hardly told anyone of this, of finding _that_ person, the right person to connect with, who he could love for the rest of his life. He’s done the wild bit, sleeping his way through Europe and Asia, and that had been fun, it had been great. But now he’s ready to find…well, his soul mate. He can already hear Niall gagging in his head at the mere mention of the phrase. 

“Oh _really_?” Niall asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “You’ll have to give me details the next time we see each other. But not too many details, y’know, I’m not all that interested in just how great it was for you to have some guy’s finger ’round your—”

“You’d be surprised just how interested you might be,” Harry says, sniffing imperiously. “Now, stop being such a snob and tell me what was so important you had to risk the wrath of my sister.”

“Oh, please. Gemma loves me. We’re gettin’ married someday, you know!”

“In your dreams. _Now,_ Niall.”

“Oh! Right. You got a job lined up yet?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I was going to spend a couple days with Gemma and then get back to looking after she goes back to Hogsmeade. Why?”

“Well, it just so happens something has come up at Hogwarts. You interested?”

Harry’s heart does a funny little skipping thing in his chest, like it’s doing a somersault. It’s always been a dream of his to teach at Hogwarts. He never imagined in a million years it would happen; to be honest, it was a bit of a pipe dream, an Ideal Situation in a world where those don’t often work out. It was his home for such a long time and he made so many friends there, had so many great memories, it only makes sense for him to continue. Niall did, after all, and he’s having the time of his life. Why shouldn’t Harry do the same, especially since he never thought this opportunity would come his way?

“What’s it for?”

“You remember Aurora Sinistra, professor of Astronomy? Well, she’s gone on maternity leave. She and her wife have just adopted a baby and they want to spend the next few months with it, so they’re looking for a temporary replacement for the post and I recommended you. Said you were the best Astronomy student I’d ever seen, which is true. Sinistra loved you, remember?”

Harry nods. Astronomy was his favorite subject, along with Herbology. It wasn’t so much that he was the best student, because he wasn’t always; there were far better academics than him. He just genuinely loved space and plants more than anything, making up what he lacked in focus with passion. Professor Sinistra had always remarked on his enthusiasm, giving him high marks, and he remembered staying late often in the Astronomy tower with her to talk about star charts and the positions of the planets, just because it fascinated him. He was one of her favorite students, she’d told him when he’d graduated, and he’d made her teaching experience worthwhile. It’d be nice if he could return the favor somehow.

“For how long?”

“Probably until the New Year. Just a couple of months.” Niall leans forward, clapping his hands together. “McGonagall said she’d be happy to interview you. She said she remembers you not being interested in much besides the sky.”

Harry’s a bit surprised she remembers him at all, what with how many students grace the hallowed halls of Hogwarts every year, but there _were_ several memorable meetings in her office, if he recalls correctly, all of which were Niall’s fault in some way. “That’s not true,” Harry insists. “I was very interested in the ground as well. Professor Longbottom loved me, said I was a _gift_ to soil.”

“Be gayer, Harry, I dare you.”

“All right. I was also _intensely_ interested in boys.” When Niall pretends to hang himself with his Hufflepuff scarf, Harry blows him a loud, wet kiss. All jokes aside, his knees _are_ starting to hurt now. "Plus," Niall trills, "there are rumors that there's going to be a Yule Ball as some sort of commemoration to Harry Potter! I dunno if it's true, but that could fun, right?" Harry nods. "All right, sounds like a nice idea. Can’t hurt to make some money since I cleaned out most of my savings. And who doesn’t want to go back to Hogwarts?”

Niall wraps the scarf around his neck until it’s nearly swallowing his face. He leaps up on his couch, jumping up and down several times. “Reunion,” he chants, clapping his hands, “reunion!”

 This _is a professor at a prestigious boarding school for magic_ , Harry thinks, laughing. _And it looks like I might be joining him._

Merlin help Headmistress McGonagall and the rest of the staff.

* * *

The interview goes really well, but Harry spends most of it trying to remember if it was him or Niall that charmed her headmistress painting into loudly playing “Scotland the Brave” on the bagpipes at the sound of her voice. It must have been Niall because she manages a small smile in Harry’s direction and offers him a hand to shake when she’s walking him out the door of the room she’d chosen at The Leaky Cauldron, wages and start time all agreed upon. Term starts in just three weeks and he’s over the moon (Astronomy joke— _ha_ ).   

“Well, Mr. Styles,” she says. “Or should I say Professor Styles? I daresay we shall be seeing quite a bit of you in the future.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Professor,” Harry says, shaking her hand a bit too enthusiastically. It takes him a second to realize his mistake and he shakes his head. “Sorry, old habit. Headmistress. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Indeed. Though, I feel the need to add, Professor.” He stops, turning back to listen. “The passwords for my office are no longer so easy to decode, and if you ever feel the particular urge for any _music_ , I suggest you take it up with your friend Professor Horan. He is, after all, the orchestra maestro, though we are sadly lacking in an official bagpipes player.” She sweeps her hat off the table and places it atop her graying hair at a slight angle. “Thank you, that will be all.”

Harry flushes and gets out of there as fast as he can. Still, as he stops by the new café that’s opened in Diagon Alley, he can’t help but laugh.

Holmes Chapel is home, but Hogwarts will always have a special place in his heart. _And I’m going back._ He spends the rest of the day shopping for term, feeling eleven years old all over again.

* * *

Harry Styles, newly minted professor of Astronomy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, does _not_ believe in half measures. Which is why he decided to take the Hogwarts Express, rather than Apparating.

All the memories came flooding back in a whirlwind, affording him the chance to dreamily stare off into the distance: Mum crying happily, pressing kisses to his wild curls; Robin tearing up and patting his shoulder, telling him how proud he was; and Gemma, rolling her eyes and pretending to vomit behind them. She was a fifth year by the time he started and nothing was new to her, but she was perfect that whole year, threatening to jinx anyone who looked at him wrong, all too happy to include Niall in those protective fancies when the two of them met in Herbology and became best friends. _That_ is an even better memory involving a dragon-dung fertilizer fight, but he’s afraid to think about that one too much, worried he might burst out laughing, only for passerby to look at him oddly.

He was just happy to be going back at all. This was just the thing he was looking for to start his life off right.

Being eighteen, he still looks quite young and not a single student questions him on the train, letting him fall asleep to the lulling rock of the train cars as they zoom through the English countryside, north to Scotland

When he wakes up, the sky has darkened, the lanterns coming to life in the train. There’s evidence of other people in his compartment in the form of Chocolate Frog wrappers and a copy of _The Quibbler_ , but nobody is there. He takes the opportunity to change into his robes. They’re brand-new, a gift to himself as a congratulations for getting the job. They’re a soft olive green; he saw them in the window at Madam Malkin’s and had to have them. They fit him perfectly, spanning his long, lanky legs and down his arms, across his broad shoulders. He’s always had a special place in his heart for the colors of the earth, especially when they look so good on him.

The train finally reaches Hogwarts and he feels like a student all over again, wondering if that feeling will ever really pass.

He joins the mad rushing throng of students, old hats calling back and forth to one another, looking for friends, grumbling about the state of their luggage and hair, and complaining about the walk to the thestral carriages. Nervous first years peer around them, edging uncertainly towards the booming voice of Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper. Harry waves at the large man, delighted when he’s recognized; Hagrid smiles beneath his bushy beard and calls out, “Hullo, _Professor_ Styles!” He wonders if that will ever stop sounding strange to him, but it’s pleasing all the same and he smiles the entire way up to the castle.

It’s just how it used to be. Towers and turrets rise up against the starry sky, golden light spilling from the windows, warm and welcoming. The moon reflects off the distant lake and the Forbidden Forest goes on and on into the horizon, dark and vaguely sinister. He has more than a few memories with that as the setting, some of which he’d rather forget, but he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world, not now. Holmes Chapel was one thing; there’s a nice bunch of witches and wizards there to be friends with, and his family’s there. In the last six months, too, he’s been all over the world, seeing the ancient pyramids and climbing mountains. But this… Nowhere in the world is there a place like Hogwarts.

Harry looks at Pleiades sitting in her cage. She’s a smoky gray barred owl that he’s had since she was just a hatchling, a gift from his mum and stepdad when he started at Hogwarts. He’s got a cat, too, but she’s not a good traveler so she’s at Gemma’s place in Hogsmeade. “Well? Shall we do this, then, together?”

Pleiades hoots softly, eyes closing. He takes that as a yes and jumps down from his carriage, greeting the house elves that come scurrying out to take his luggage with a brilliant smile. 

The Astronomy Tower is very much like Harry remembers, only now he’s in the living quarters of it and it’s empty, waiting to be filled with his belongings, his presence. He and the house elves drop off his luggage and he thanks them profusely, promising he’ll visit them in the kitchens just as he used to do as a student. After that it’s quiet, just a boy in his tower, spinning in a slow circle, looking up at the ceiling. Harry’s always wondered what a teacher’s living area looks like at Hogwarts and now he’s finally found out: Half of it is a tiny kitchen, bedroom, and loo; the other half is his office where he’ll grade star charts and read books. A thrill shoots through him at the prospect.

Outside his office, there’s a spiral staircase; he climbs it up to the observatory deck, where the metal model of the sun sits, motionless. Beneath it is the smaller model, the glass piece, the orb, that will make all of Harry’s teaching possible. He bends, blowing a thin layer of dust off of it, before strolling over to the balcony, looking out across the grounds.

A sea of stars mirrors the sky across the lake’s surface and Harry sighs. The boats carrying new students are crossing the dark depths, their lanterns blazing, Hagrid their captain at the prow, steering them towards the inner recesses of the castle from far below. Harry leans his elbow against the railing, chin in his hands. It seems much longer than seven years ago that he was in one of those boats, curls falling into his eyes, neck craned to look up at the very tower he’s standing in now.

He’s up there so long, reminiscing, that he nearly forgets about the feast. He takes the stairs down two at a time, the sound of laughter and children’s voices an ocean of chatter nearby, reminding him to hurry. If he misses McGonagall’s speech, he’s done for.

He’s breathing hard when he gets down to the ground floor, trying not to run but unable to do anything else, adrenaline and the genuine fear of making an ass out of himself his first night there pushing him forward. He nearly goes barreling into Peeves, managing a quick twist out of the way, the ghost flinging bits of chalk after him and blowing a raspberry very loudly.

Harry’s hand is on the knob to the door of the teacher’s entrance at the head of the hall when it yanks open away from him, pulling him into somebody. Harry’s a wizard, a wizard who aced nearly all of his N.E.W.T.s and is now a teacher, who’s been all over the world and seen so many different exciting things that he should seem a bit more traveled and smarter than he’s always felt. Yet, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is the most lurid, terrible, monosyllabic word he can possibly manage:

“ _Oops_.”

Standing there, gently holding both Harry’s elbow and the door, is someone who can’t be much older than Harry, not if his height is any indication, but he’s—well, he’s the most incredible-looking person Harry has ever seen in his life.

His hair is some kind of chocolate- cinnamon concoction that makes Harry instantly hungry, and it falls across his forehead and around his face in untidy waves, looking artfully nonchalant. His skin is a dusky gold, as though he’s spent the whole of the summer relaxing somewhere truly magical, like Egypt or Ibiza. His robes are a dark maroon that Harry mistakes for black at first before he catches the barest hint of color in the light. They’re shabby, several black patches scrawled with words sewed to the fabric, and his cuffs are threadbare as though he really can’t be arsed.

Everything about him is small and sharp, from his nose and pointed chin, almost dainty wrists and slim hips, to the gaze he sends Harry, blue-green eyes narrowing with either confusion or curiosity, Harry can’t tell.

“Hi,” he says.

The faintest hint of stubble rests across his jaw and chin, and Harry—well, Harry is gone. His mind is a crossword, every space reading FUCK down, up, sideways, every which way, because there are no other words, no intelligent sentences to string along as he is absolutely, irretrievably lost.

“Erm, hi,” Harry stammers, still held by the incomparable golden pixie before him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“No worries.” His voice is high, mellifluous, and damned if he doesn’t have the sweetest Yorkshire accent Harry has ever heard. The arms of his robes are bit too wide for him, making him push them back up towards his elbow every so often, only to slide back down immediately after.

He releases Harry, carefully pushing him back on his feet and straightening his robe, plucking off imaginary bits of fluff, keeping the door open with one spritely ankle. “There,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles up at Harry— _eyes crinkling, smiling up at Harry_ —“Good as new.”

Harry has to remind himself that in typical social situations, it’s polite to answer people. His voice thankfully doesn’t break when he says, “Thanks.” There’s something familiar about this person, something that Harry just can’t quite put his finger on.

“’Course.” He holds out a hand. “Can I ask you a question, though?”

Harry nods dumbly. He could ask him how many stars are in the sky and Harry would endeavor to find out, no matter how long it takes.

He leans in, whispering, “Why are you sneaking in through the teacher’s entrance?” He smiles, standing back up. “No, don’t answer, let me guess: You were late for the Heads of House summons and now you’re afraid of coming in through the front and having everyone see you.” 

Only then does Harry notice the swelling sound behind him, the buzz and garble of dozens of conversations. The students have already been seated; now they are simply waiting for the first years to arrive for the Sorting. Harry wants to sink into the floor, especially as it seems this beautiful, delightful creature before him thinks he’s a _student_.

“Yeah, something along those lines,” Harry says, nodding. “Can I just—” He points over the man’s slim shoulder.

He shrugs. “Sure. Go hunt down your friends, I’m sure they’re wondering where you are.”

 _I’m sure, too_. He squeezes past this professor, whoever he is, and he stops breathing until they’re well out of arm’s reach. He can practically feel the eyes on his back as he edges along the staff table, distinctly not heading for one of the House tables. Niall is already seated, chatting to a tan, athletic-looking type in a black robe that looks vaguely familiar. When the vaguely familiar-looking bloke sees Harry, he nudges Niall; Niall turns, entire face brightening into a grin. He waves Harry over.

“Harry, yeh made it! I wish you would’ve Apparated to Hogsmeade like everyone else, I’ve been tellin’ Liam about you for hours. Liam Payne, this is my best mate, Harry Styles. He’s the Astronomy supply teacher for Aurora.”

Liam is a bit shorter than Harry (who isn’t), with a close-cut hairstyle and a pleasant face. He smiles, offering a hand to shake. “Right, I remember you. You’re the one who enchanted McGonagall’s painting. I’m surprised she hired you after that.”

Harry hurriedly shakes his hand. It’s nothing personal; he’s sure Liam is a nice bloke, but he wants to ask Niall about that man at the door. “So am I, to be honest. Nice to meet you, Liam, Niall’s said so much about you.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like you were an excellent Beater for Gryffindor. I think I remember that, too.” Harry doesn’t, not really, but he doesn’t want to be totally rude on his first day, especially after that altercation with the other professor.

Speaking of. He glances back, but the professor he ran into has disappeared. Presumably through that door he was opening when Harry practically demolished with him with his ogre-like hands and feet. He wants to Apparate out of the United Kingdom, maybe go to America where his embarrassment can live without any more shame, if that’s at all even possible.

He spends the next few minutes chatting to Liam and Niall, barely listening though, unable to get that professor out of his head. Who is he? And who gave him the right to look that damn gorgeous, especially since they’re _co-workers_? The word has never felt so disgusting to Harry; he wants to char it from every dictionary in existence. It’s only been _one day_ and life already isn’t fair. Harry can’t help thinking: Whose broomtail did he step on whilst he was exploring the world to earn this kind of cruel and unusual punishment?

Lamenting his newest tragedy, Harry almost misses the chance to take it all in again, especially considering he’s never seen the Great Hall from _this_ vantage point before. The long House tables stretch all the way back from the dais where the staff table rests, their enormous standards hanging over them, usually; tonight, however, the Hogwarts crest is embroidered brilliantly onto majestic purple banners, rippling gently in the breeze from the enchanted night sky, where Harry can already pick out Ursa Major. Candles that somehow manage not to drip wax hover in clusters in the air, lighting the entire hall with a warm, comforting glow. And of course, there are the students, their faces bright with excitement, with trepidation, with longing. Regardless of what they’re feeling, Harry knows without a doubt that for all of them, there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. For everyone in the room, this place is a sanctuary, a home.

McGonagall enters then with the Sorting Hat and the Great Hall begins to hush. Soon the first years will arrive and term will officially begin. Niall begins to complain quietly beside him about how long it’s taking; his stomach is not used to being asked to wait.

Partly to get him to shut up, partly to satisfy his own desperate curiosity, Harry turns and whispers, “Niall, do you know a professor here—”

Niall rolls his eyes. “I know loads of professors here, Haz.”

“Yes, _thank you_. Do you know one that’s a bit shorter than me, with this brownish hair and—” _Devilishly good looks that somehow translate into angelic all at once, bit like a life-size pixie, utterly shaggable, kind of sassy,_ “—he’s got these bluish-green eyes and erm…” Niall’s staring at him with the most deadpan expression, waiting for him to finish. “He was wearing these dark robes with patches on them.”

Niall’s eyes light with recognition. “Oh, yeah! That’s Louis Tomlinson. He’s a mate. He took over for our McGona-gal herself. She had a string of temps all after that Harry Potter business but none of ’em lasted more than a year, bit like the Defense Against the Dark Arts curse stuff. Then Louis showed up about two years ago and he’s been the Transfiguration professor ever since.”

 _Louis Tomlinson._ Harry turns back to glance at the door, completely and absolutely _without_ longing, and sees that everyone has sat down and is eagerly anticipating the Sorting about to begin. Louis Tomlinson himself is there and he’s sitting beside some stranger who might be, without a doubt, the most beautiful person on land, sky, and sea that exists.

And yet, Louis is looking right at Harry.

Harry looks away quickly as a reflex, heart jumping in his chest. When he steels himself (as much as he can), his eyes flick back. Louis is still staring at him, wide-eyed with wonder and possibly also confusion. Harry smiles. Raises a hand. Waves.

Louis’ eyes widen more, if that’s even possible, before he smiles too. Slowly, he shakes his head.

McGonagall calls for quiet and the Sorting Ceremony begins.

* * *

The feast ends with Harry full and happy, glad to be in the company he’s in. McGonagall gave a rather rousing speech, which makes sense because she’s Scottish and shamelessly flaunting a brilliant tartan robe that he gives her compliments on not once, but twice. The pudding is extra delicious and it’s only after McGonagall has sent the students off to bed that Harry can even think beyond the plates in front of him.

He falls in step with Niall and Liam, hands in the pockets of his robes, thinking about how odd it will be falling asleep alone in Hogwarts when he’s used to being in a dormitory filled with wonderful, ridiculous boys of a similar age. At that moment, a shadow falls across his other side and there’s Louis Tomlinson and the guy from earlier (the one McGonagall introduced as Professor Malik, taking over for History of Magic of all things), both of them beside each other causing Harry to stop in his tracks and stare unabashedly, open-mouthed and absolutely foolish. But really, how is he supposed to help himself?

Louis is one thing, beautiful in a way that strikes Harry to the core. But this other person is…unlike anyone Harry has ever, ever seen. He imagines even blind people find this guy attractive, because there just isn’t a way that you _can’t_. His skin is bronzed; his eyes large, luminous, and dark; and long lashes fall over his cheeks so perfectly that Harry can hardly look away.

Until Louis speaks, that is.

“So! You’re a professor.” Louis grins wryly. “I thought they only hired adults here.”

Harry snaps out of it as quickly as he can, managing a smile. “Very funny. I’m eighteen.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “And I thought Niall was young.”

At the sound of his name, Niall turns, smiling broadly when he sees Louis. They hug, clapping each other on the back. “Good to see you, Tommo. And um, hi, I don’t think we’ve met?” Niall extends a hand easily, his smile the most charming Harry’s ever seen. He glances between the two of them.

“Zayn Malik,” the beautiful newcomer says with a heavy Northern accent, thicker even than Louis’. He shakes Niall’s hand and Harry catches the lingering touch with a practiced eye.

Harry shakes his hand too, unable to stop himself, because there’s _something_ about him that he finds eerily familiar. “I think we’ve met before, actually, I—”

“You’re that boy who used to sit outside the common room,” Zayn says, nodding. “I remember.”

Liam glances between them, head whipping back and forth. “Erm, what’s he talking about?”

Niall laughs. “Wait, you knew him? And you actually witnessed this terrible part of Harry’s history?”

Harry nudges Niall, frowning. “It’s not _terrible_. It was fun. I miss it, actually. Maybe I’ll stop by and say hi.”

“Does anyone care to explain what you’re all on about?” Louis asks, one finely arched eyebrow raised.

Zayn smiles. “Right, so when I was here there was this weird little first year who used to, like, sit outside the common room and just solve the riddles the door would give him over and over, because it was fun. At first, everyone thought he was just confused on how to get inside, but he always said—”

“I always said, ‘I can get _in_ the door, but I’m not through talking to it first’.” Harry grins, almost shyly when Louis shoots him a glance, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah. We all knew him and we just like, accepted it that some days he would be out there, sitting on the floor outside the tower, chatting with it.”

Harry suddenly stands up straight, pointing at Zayn. “Didn’t you draw me once while I was out there?”

Zayn nods fervently. “I did, yeah! I couldn’t sleep and you were there, laying on the floor and solving riddles.” He shakes his head. “I ended up spilling coffee on it a year or so ago, though. I was gutted, it was good, y’know, for me back then.” 

“Incredible,” Harry says, laughing. “What are the odds? It’s so good to see you again.”

Zayn loosens up a bit after that, talking about how his sisters are students there and he’s offered to keep an eye on them for his mum, which makes Niall laugh good-naturedly but the rest of them nod in understanding; they’ve all got sisters, Harry discovers, and he can’t think of a happier fact in that moment other than he’s standing beside Louis and their shoulders are touching.

“So History of Magic, huh? That’s weird,” Niall says shamelessly.

Zayn casts his eyelashes low over his cheeks shyly. “Yeah, apparently the old professor’s in some trouble with the Spirit Division of the Ministry.” 

“Not Professor Binns?” Liam asks, looking faintly alarmed.

“The same, yeah,” Louis says, nodding. “Zayn here was telling me over dinner that he’s absolutely _thrilled_ to be taking the post of History of Magic.”

Niall, Liam, and Harry exchange a doubtful glance. Everyone knows History of Magic classes at Hogwarts. Thanks to Professor Binns, the only ghost to ever teach there, the lectures are notoriously tedious and sleep-inducing, perhaps the _worst_ class to be forced to endure nearly all of one’s education there. Though, to be fair, Harry can’t complain all that much: Niall had some of the best sleep he ever managed in the castle in Binns’ classroom and Harry, too, spent many a double-period working on homework for his numerous other classes, all while jotting down relevant names, dates, and events that he caught in snippets during Binns’ droning. He managed to pass with adequate grades, though his papers were never quite up to snuff in the detail category.

“That’s really great,” Harry says. Who cares if History of Magic is terrible? He’s just happy not to be the only new professor. “I’m sure you’ll smash it.”

Zayn’s smile grows a bit brighter, less timid, as Louis nods in agreement.

“You should’ve seen it, though,” Louis says. “The shouting! Peeves’ll be doing that one for years.” He shakes his head. “Rotten luck.”

Harry licks his lips, eyes trained on Louis. “What’ll he do now?”

“Well, he can’t leave, can he?” Niall asks. “He died here. Reckon he has unfinished business?”

“I hope not,” Liam says. “Can you imagine trying to help him with that? I mean, who would? Though, I imagine some might, just to try and get rid of him.”

Louis frowns. “Don’t be cruel, Liam. Binns’ entire life was here. Most of his death, as well. It’s understandable that it’ll be an adjustment for him.” He turns to Harry, eyes bright. “McGonagall’s said that he isn’t allowed to haunt his classroom and old office anymore, since Zayn will be in there. I’m not sure where he’ll go, but he’ll still be here, just another Hogwarts ghost.” Louis sighs. “Can’t be any worse than the Bloody Baron. I know he was my House ghost, but he could be such a _downer_.”

“Oh, speaking of which.” He lays a hand on Harry’s arm and he has to fight the urge to jump out of his skin, every particle in his body zeroing in on Louis’ touch. “Watch out up there in the Astronomy Tower.”

Harry grins. “Must be a favorite _haunt_ of his, eh?”

Niall barks out a laugh and Louis smiles too, almost against his will. “That was horrible. You should be ashamed.”

“Never. Joke-making is an art.”

“Yes, well, leave it to the artistic.” He holds out a hand. “We were never properly introduced, by the way.” Louis smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Harry catches one glimpse of them and has to swallow, hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Louis Tomlinson.”

They shake hands, Louis’ palms a bit rough, like he’s been out doing all manner of amazing things in the world. “Harry Styles.”

“Harry Styles,” Louis murmurs. “That’s a name to remember.”

 _Sweet mother of Merlin. I’m not going to make it to Christmas break._ “Yeah, erm, Niall said you’re the Transfiguration professor?”

Louis opens his mouth, but Niall interjects loudly. “Yeah, and I’m the Charms professor, Zayn is History, and Liam here’s Defense Against the Dark Arts. Your point, Haz?” Niall is looking at him so pointedly, Harry can practically feel the pricking against his skin.

He blushes at the nickname. “Am I allowed to get to know my fellow professors?”

Niall yawns. “No, not when I’m this tired. Care for a turn-in, lads?”

“As long as it gets me away from you,” Harry retorts. They all laugh and something collapses in Harry’s chest, some web of anxiety he’d spun around his own heart. He’s never taught before a day in his life and he has next to no idea what he’s doing. And yet, this is going to be the most magical time, he can just feel it. He slides a stealthy glance at Louis, Louis Tomlinson, the Transfiguration professor. If he survives it, anyway. The sexual tension _might_ just kill him before he has a chance.

The Transfiguration classroom and office are down there on the ground floor so they bid Louis goodnight first, the five of them loitering by the staircase. The other three say their farewells and promise to sit near each other at breakfast the next morning before they’re tramping up the stairs, talking about what on earth was smudged on Professor Longbottom’s cheek all throughout the meal (Harry’s guess, though he doesn’t say it aloud, is exactly that: earth).

Harry waits on the first step, looking down at Louis over the stone baluster. Louis looks even smaller from up there, gilded and kissable in the light of half a dozen nearby wall sconces, flames flickering quietly.

Harry thinks he should say something along the lines of _well, goodnight then_ , but instead he says, “Did you _really_ think I was a student?”

“Honestly?”

Harry nods.

“Yes. You might be tall and have extraordinarily large hands, but you look like you could still be a student. Y’know, bright-eyed. Rosy-cheeked. Delicate.”

 _Extraordinarily large hands. Delicate._ Harry repeats in his head, the words oozing through his thoughts in slow motion.

Louis tilts his head to the side, laughing in a short burst. “If I shaved, I might, too.”

“Don’t,” Harry says, perhaps a little too quickly. It’s one of the few things he _isn’t_ embarrassed about that night.

Louis smiles in the smuggest, most infuriating way, like he knows every thought filtering through Harry’s mind. He probably does.

“I thought you were a student, yeah,” Louis says, voice quieter now, leaving Harry to lean over the baluster somewhat to hear. “But I hoped you weren’t.”

Harry goes warm all over at that realization, cheeks blazing. Before he can even dream up a single thought in response to that, Louis flashes him a jaunty half-wave. “Goodnight, Haz,” he says, turning on one foot and strolling away.

Harry waits for him to look back, and when he does, Harry knows: It’s going to be a wild four months.

* * *

The first month of term is a haze of starry nights and autumn-sprinkled days, the lake dark and deep and sparkling reflections of the weak sunlight; at night, the winds blow soft and cool with the whispered promise of winter. Harry, much as he stares dreamily out at it, however, is no longer afforded the privilege of nature. His time to himself is woefully gone.

Though scheduled, his days are far more wild and hectic than he ever imagined they would be. His classes end around one in the morning and he’s up again at eight to join everyone in the Great Hall for breakfast. Then he’s back to his office to plan the lessons for that evening which usually takes all morning because Harry, being Harry, is prone to distraction and daydreaming. Then there’s lunch, which he always takes the walk all the way back down for on the off-chance he’ll get to see Louis there, and then it’s back up to his office to grade papers and star charts. Dinnertime is spent hearing all about the lads’ day and what students caused what sort of catastrophe this time and then he’s bidding them goodnight—but his day is really only _just_ beginning then.

He holds office hours after dinner for his students if they need help. Most of them come to him asking about Jupiter’s moons and the different between parallax and parsecs, but some of them just come to chat and Harry especially likes those moments. He likes the idea of getting to know his students, even though he knows in just a few short months, he’ll be gone. Still, he offers them tea and asks after them and how they’re getting along because, after all, his youngest are the first years at eleven and he knows how it feels to be away from home for so long. Even those accustomed to Hogwarts have to know that the magic does come at a bit of a cost. He makes sure they know his office doors are always open.

Mondays he has seventh years, just a handful of them who are excellent in every regard and make him feel a bit inadequate, being that he’s only a year older than them. Sometimes _they_ correct _him_ and he’s grateful for it, but he still flushes silver in the dark anyway. Tuesdays are fourth years; Wednesdays are third years in the evening and first years at midnight; Thursdays are fifth years; and Fridays belong to the sixth years in the evening and the second years later on. For each group year, he has two hours: one devoted to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, the other to Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

He has the weekends off but those are usually spent answering long, rambling letters from Gemma and falling asleep in his armchair with a map of the constellations on his lap, trying to catch up on the absolute mountain of homework he receives every week to grade. The only moment of spontaneity he has is when he decides to sneak down to the kitchens to fetch Niall a cupcake for his birthday halfway through September, and he hardly even has time to properly celebrate, called away when a couple of fifth years think it’s funny to smear grease on all of the telescope eyepieces.

It takes him the entire month to get into a rhythm and he hardly sees Louis at all, only at mealtimes and occasionally down on the first floor. Such is the tragedy of their circumstances; they’re an entire castle apart. Besides, Transfiguration is and has always been one of the more difficult branches of magic. Harry can’t even begin to imagine what _his_ workload might be like.

October arrives in a blustery chill, leaves coating the grounds of Hogwarts in a plethora of warm colors. Hagrid does his best to keep the hillsides free of them but most of the trees have ideas of their own and each morning, there’s more to rake up than the day before. Harry has absolutely _nothing_ to do with it, as he is far too busy for such shenanigans, but he _is_ good friends with Neville Longbottom, the Herbology professor, who shares his distinct love for autumn leaves. So. There’s _that_ to consider. He just loves the colors and the way they look spread out against all that green. There isn’t just magic in their wands and at their fingertips, but in nature as well and Harry makes sure to enjoy that every moment he can.

He’s gotten somewhat used to his new schedule now and manages to carve out time for himself where he can, which is usually every afternoon. Rather than cooping himself up in his tower, he heads down to the staffroom on the ground floor to socialize with the other professors and definitely not for just one in particular whose office is only a hop, skip, and a jump away… At least, that’s what he tells himself.

One Thursday afternoon in the middle of the month, Harry finds Louis in the staffroom having tea, perusing the Daily Prophet. Professor Vector, the Arithmancy teacher, is there as well but she’s asleep in an armchair by the fire, head lolling onto her chest. Harry freezes, clutching his stack of parchment to his chest, watching Louis warily. He looks entirely lost to his surroundings, hardly seeming to notice that he’s been holding his tea cup up to his mouth for several minutes, not drinking from it, deeply immersed in his reading.

Harry doesn’t even realize he’s still standing in the doorway until he’s bumped from behind. The papers in his arms go flying through the air as he stumbles. From her place by the fire, Professor Vector is startled awake, glancing over at them with a sleepy frown.

“Oh, dear me,” Professor Trelawney of Divination says from behind him, blinking at him owlishly from behind her large glasses. “I’m so clumsy, I’m terribly sorry.”

“No, it’s all right Professor—er, Sybil,” Harry says, blushing. Louis is looking now, he can just feel it, and it just figures he would make a complete fool out of himself _yet again_ —

A shadow falls over him as he’s picking up the parchment and Harry looks up at Louis. He’s grinning down at Harry, one hand on a hip, eyebrows raised. “You’re just a mess, aren’t you?” he asks. He looks at Trelawney, who is still mumbling her apologies. “There’s no need, Sybil, it’s quite all right. I’ll help him, you fetch yourself some tea!” He winks. “Or sherry. Harry, Septima, and I won’t tell.” He looks over his shoulder at Professor Vector. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Stuff your darlings, Tomlinson,” Vector says breezily and he smiles.

“Always a laugh, that Septima. Here.” He crouches down beside Harry and begins gathering up all of the parchment into a haphazard heap. “So, other than this minor mishap, how are you, Haz?"

Ever since the first night of term, that nickname has stuck for Louis, even in the few times they’ve seen each other. It’s either Harold, Haz, or Merlin forbid, Professor Styles, which Harry thinks just sounds silly, like he’s being reprimanded, though he himself is an authority figure for perhaps the first time in his life (more than anything, that has probably been the biggest adjustment for him).

“I’m—” _trying to run into you every chance I can_ “—doing pretty well, actually. It’s something to get used to, but that’s life, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it,” Louis repeats, nodding. “I’m glad. I worried about you a bit.”

“You worried? About me?”

“There’s an echo in here,” Louis says, grinning sardonically, rolling his eyes at himself. “But yes, I was. I was concerned students might not take you seriously, since you look so much like them.” Harry must look confused, because Louis clarifies, “Oh, you know. All fresh and dainty like a flower, eyes bright in the back of the classroom, sighing wistfully at the prospect of learning something new.” When they’ve gathered up all the parchment, they stand, Harry more slowly. “These kids can be mean sometimes. I worried they might eat you alive. What a shame that would be.”

Harry doesn’t even know how to respond to that. _A flower_. That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to him in—well, forever. Even Niall’s “I’d let you top me” doesn’t quite come close to this (and besides, he wouldn’t; Harry is a bottom for life). “Um—”

“You’re grading these, right?” He points to his table. “Wanna sit?”

Harry nods. Louis dumps the parchment on the table, shuffling the papers together before pulling the chair out for Harry. “So,” he says when he plops down. “Tell me about yourself, Haz. I feel like we haven’t had a proper sit-down and it’s been nearly two months since you’ve joined me.”

Not us. _Me._ Harry’s chest warms as he plays with his quill, rolling it back and forth across the surface of the table. He hardly knows where to begin, so he starts with the easiest subject for him to talk about: Family.

Harry tells him about Gemma and the girlfriend she has yet to introduce him to because she’s still a bit shy about it all, though she’s been “out of the broom closet” for years, and about how his mum is a witch who happened to marry just the right Muggle, and all about their little coven of witches and wizards in Holmes Chapel. Louis laughs perfectly at his story about their cat, Dusty, and how Gemma and a neighbor of theirs accidentally turned the poor thing into a pig for nearly an hour, unable to change him back; Harry’s so enchanted, watching Louis’ eyes crinkle and his lips split wide, the sound the purest magic Harry’s ever encountered. After that, he can’t stop himself. He talks about the woods behind his cottage and his owl, Pleiades, and the way the stars look from the roof of their house. He wishes he knew how to shut up, but with Louis looking at him with his full, undivided attention, it’s impossible. At least he hasn’t blurted out how beautiful he thinks he is. Not yet, anyway.

Harry finally comes back down from his cloud and takes a breath. “So, that’s me,” he says, shrugging. “What about you?”

“You can’t get any more Muggle-born than me,” Louis says, laughing again.

If Harry thinks his life is wild, it’s nothing compared to Louis’. He’s got a whole slew of siblings and half-siblings and the lot of them run wild during the summertime in a sprawling three-story house in the Yorkshire countryside. Harry leans his cheek on one hand while he’s listening to Louis talk about his sisters and how they drive his mum absolutely up the wall with their antics; he can hardly stop himself from swooning at Louis’ accent.

By the time they’ve stopped laughing over Harry’s story about how he met Niall, Harry notices Louis still has his copy of the Daily Prophet open. Harry gestures to it, silently asking if he can pick it up; Louis nods. Harry flips through it a few pages, until he finds the byline he’s looking for. He hands it back to Louis.

“My sister’s column. That’s where she works.”

Louis’ eyes light up. “ _No_ , really? That’s incredible! ‘ _Multi-Faceted Gem._ ’ Does she live in London, then?”

“No, she lives up here in Hogsmeade with her mysterious girl. I’m supposed to go to dinner with them when I ‘get settled.’” He does the air-quotes motion with his fingers and Louis laughs.

“Does she commute?”

Harry nods. “She writes here and then Apparates to turn her assignments in. Sometimes if she’s feeling cheeky, she just sends them by owl.”

“She sounds wonderful.” He folds up the newspaper, laying it back down. “Two of mine are here as well, no doubt you’ll meet them at some point.”

“Oh yeah? Who in what House?”

“Lottie’s in Slytherin and Fizzy’s in Gryffindor. The twins will be here next year, which is going to be wild, having all four of them here at once. The other two are just babies.”

“Are you—” Harry licks his lips, thinking on what he was about to say. “Sorry if this is too personal, but is that weird?”

“What? The age difference?” Louis shrugs. “Not so much. We’ve always been pretty close and I’ve always been around. I watched them grow up, you know? Practically raised ’em myself, to be honest. Things were tough on Mum, though—with me at Hogwarts, she had four girls to raise and not a lot of help, and it wasn’t like we could give them most of my hand-me-downs, either.” He shrugs again. “It’s a bit weird that I’m their professor, though. They thought they might get some kind of special treatment, but they let go of that dream pretty quickly.”

“Were you just rotten to them?”

Louis grins widely. “Yes. Still am. But they can be little monsters, too, you know.”

It’s only then, after a few more minutes of random, lovely conversation, that Harry notices two things: The light in the staffroom has changed from a sunny lemon to a burning gold, and he hasn’t graded a single one of his students’ papers. He glances towards the windows, the realization that it’s nearly dinner time and he’s done absolutely nothing productive hitting him all at once.

“Yeah, I just noticed that myself,” Louis says as if reading his mind. “Want to go down to dinner together? I was talking to Niall earlier and he said the house elves told him it was going to be shepherd’s pie tonight. I swear he knows all of them by name.”

In that moment, Harry doesn’t give a damn about the papers. He gathers them all up and taps them with his wand. “Back to the Astronomy Tower,” he says sternly. “And if you run into Peeves on the way, do that scattering trick like I taught you,” he says. The papers flutter encouragingly before they float away.

“You’re quite good at Charms work,” Louis says as they leave the staffroom. It’s a short walk to the Great Hall, but Harry plans to savor it. “How are you at my particular subject?”

“Rubbish,” Harry says and when Louis flashes him a doubtful frown, he laughs. “All right, not that bad, but pretty bad. I got an O.W.L. but not a N.E.W.T. Traynor only gave me an A on that one.”

“That’s not so bad. She could’ve failed you much worse than that.”

“What’d you get on them?”

“An O on my O.W.L.s, an E on my N.E.W.T.s.” Harry raises his eyebrows at that, but Louis shrugs coolly. “She was McGonagall’s niece and a very tough grader.”

Harry bites his lip but it’s too much and he laughs, helpless giggles spiraling up to the ceiling. Louis makes a face at him and pokes his hip, but Harry can’t stop, and soon Louis is laughing, too.

“You’re odd,” Louis says when he catches his breath, looking at Harry. “I’m glad I met you.”

Harry’s heart does some mad tumbling thing in his chest and it’s harder to breathe suddenly. “I’m glad I met you, too.” Louis stops and Harry realizes they’re outside the Great Hall, just feet away, and soon it will be them and an entire cathedral’s worth of people in there, not just Harry and Louis. They’ll be professors again, not just mates—and possibly more, if Harry can dare to hope. _Please don’t see me as just a friend or some quick shag,_ he says in his head. _Please think of me the way I think of you._

“So,” Louis says, drawing out the word. “You hear about the first Hogsmeade trip?”

Harry shakes his head. He’d seen the flyers go up, but he’d been too busy to properly inspect them.

“It’s on Halloween. You going to go?”

He nods. “Yeah, I probably should. I can see Gemma and get out of here for a bit, de-stress and all that.”

“Yeah, it should be fun.” Louis’ eyes, a keen mix of green and blue, practically pin him to the wall behind him. “I was thinking, if you’re interested, we could go together.”

The air in Harry’s lungs vanishes in one mighty heave. “Together like—like a date?”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “Wait, you _are_ into guys, right? I didn’t just make a complete arse of myself picking up some kind of invisible signal?”

“No, yeah, I am.” Harry’s surprised Niall hasn’t said something, that it’s something Louis has noticed almost emanating from him. He likes that, but he also wonders what else he might be giving off. _‘I want to marry you and have your babies’_ vibes? If so, he hopes Louis is down for that because Harry has never set his sights on someone so fully and completely before. It’s just so easy to imagine, him and Louis. Sitting in a tree, _K-I-S-S-I-N-G,_ the whole shebang.

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Harry admits. “A month and a half into my new job, and already a date.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Louis says nonchalantly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I figure you can never go wrong with casual.”

Harry’s heart sinks like a leaf that’s caught too many raindrops. “Oh. Right.”

He must see something on Harry’s face, because Louis opens his mouth, perhaps to clarify, but Harry, he’s desperate—and that’s not something cute or savvy to admit—but he’s desperate to keep getting to know Louis, to be close to him, even if it’s casual, even if it’s only for a while, because he’s just that beautiful and witty and thoughtful and everything that Harry has been looking for, so _who_ bloody cares? He can stand it lasting only a little while (if it does), because it will have happened at all. He can do this.

_Right?_

Harry smiles. “Casual’s great, I’d love to.”

Louis hesitates, like maybe he still sees some lingering doubt in Harry’s eyes, but after a second or two, he smiles as well, eyes crinkling adorably just to punch Harry in the heart for good measure. “Wonderful. We’ll work out the particulars sometime between now and then, yeah?”

Harry nods. “I can’t wait.”

He’s only half-there at dinner and if Louis notices anything, he gives no indication. _Casual it is, then_ , Harry thinks, ready to take this curse wherever they’re headed, even if it kills him.

* * *

The two weeks go by in a rush. Harry still finds himself walking to the staffroom and to his amazement, Louis is there now every day. He briefly entertains the thought that maybe Louis is waiting for him, but there’s absolutely nothing casual about that, so he throws it out immediately. Maybe Louis always meant to claim that particular table in the staffroom and Harry just happened to be there that day that he chose to finally do so. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with Harry at all, and he just likes quiet places to drink Yorkshire tea and read the newspaper like he’s much older. Maybe fate’s a lie and it’s all just a series of random happenstances that lead him to walk in the room on that day. Maybe.

Whatever the case, they sit together every afternoon and chat. Harry _has_ met one of Louis’ sisters, it turns out; her name is Felicite, not Fizzy, as he called her, but to Harry it doesn’t matter, either way she’s Miss Tomlinson. As it happens, she’s the only one who is both old enough and eligible to be in his class (Lottie failed her Astronomy O.W.L.). She’s vivacious like Louis and Harry can see in her shrewd, playful gaze that they’re related.

Louis asks after her from time to time to “report back to Mum” and they exchange classroom war stories, though Harry thinks himself quite lucky, his bunch are rarely prone to acts of hooliganism. He’s got a couple of handfuls, sure, but it’s nothing he can’t take care of with some respect and level talk. It helps that his subject is calmer, more fluid and lax; after all, his students aren’t prone to meltdowns when their tortoises don’t change into the teapots they wanted—or change at all. 

He loves to listen to Louis talk about Transfiguration, though. There’s nothing more endearing to him, more (dare he say it) sexy, than a man with passion—and Transfiguration is what Louis truly loves. Maybe not as much as his tea or his Quidditch, but it’s definitely top three.

His eyes go all misty when he talks about it. “I feel it’s a bit misunderstood, to be honest, Transfiguration. People see it as frightening, as dangerous, even. It’s…yes, you get to change the nature of something. You can reach inside of it and pull it apart and twist it into something new, but it can be something _better_ , something beautiful. What other branch of magic can do that? In what other branch are magic and science so entwined that you don’t know where one stops and the other begins?” 

Harry just smiles because he understands, he gets it so perfectly, it’s what has always attracted him to Astronomy in the first place. “Mine,” he says and the smile Louis sends him is a different kind, fond and endeared, but also considering, one that tells Harry he is thinking serious things for once. Harry wishes he could read his mind, but he isn’t quite sure how to read Louis, not when he acts one way and says something else.

For instance, looking at Harry like he hangs the sun up every morning and then going around using words like _casual_. Where the fuck did that come from? He tells Harry he’s glad he isn’t a student, meaning _something_ that sounds to Harry like he’s glad he can fuck him _when_ the chance arises, not if, but if that’s all he is to Louis, just some warm mouth, then why bother talking to him? Why go through the trouble of actually getting to know him if he just wants a quickie in a broom closet?

Harry’s…well, he’s confused. And he hates being this confused when it’s all so soon. Is he even allowed to be this puzzled and annoyed, when it’s only been a month and a half? He considers asking Gemma, but there’s no point, not yet—he’ll be seeing her on Halloween.

When he called via Floo Powder to inform her, she practically did a dance in her sitting room. “That’s wonderful, Harry! I’ll make up the guest room and you can spend the night.”

“I will, but only on the condition that I finally meet this girl. I’ve had enough of it, Gem, it’s getting silly now.”

“Yes, well, having you to dinner will sort of force the issue, won’t it, since she lives here,” she says testily. “Don’t worry, she’s very excited to meet you as well.”

Louis, too, approaches him about their plans just several days before the first trip to Hogsmeade in the staffroom. “We’ll meet down at the carriage house, yeah? We can take one to the village and work our way through it. Unless sight-seeing isn’t your thing?”

Sight-seeing is _precisely_ Harry’s thing and he says as much. Louis grins, pleased. “Excellent! We can do a bit of shopping and maybe have lunch at the Three Broomsticks?”

Plans in motion, nothing can stop Halloween from arriving, and when it does, it’s to the thrill of the entire castle. A swarm of bats greets them all as they come down that morning for breakfast and they flutter around throughout the entire meal, swooping low over students’ heads to their shrieks and gasps, flying in lazy circles around the candles that float in the air overhead. Orange, black, and purple streamers adorn the walls and every staircase, and black candles drip wax from the chandeliers and candelabras. Peeves spends the morning scaring students, particularly first years, and the ghosts are all abuzz, roaming the hallways more frequently than usual, doing their own fair bit to scare and excite. According to Louis, it’s one of the only days that the Bloody Baron is happy—and that frightens Harry a bit, if he’s being honest, so he tries to avoid his tower as much as he can.

Third years and older students have already begun to leave, presenting their permission slips to their heads of Houses, all except Ravenclaw, as they don’t yet have one. Professor Flitwick retired at the end of the last term and McGonagall has yet to name another; for the time being, Zayn has taken over, as the students are enamored with him.

Harry is watching the courtyard below from a window, waiting for Louis, who always seems to be running late. Longbottom, Slughorn, and Niall are all outside, chatting in between their lines of students, but the Ravenclaw bunch are standing off to the side, looking around worriedly, forlorn and forgotten. Harry is considering going down there and doing it himself, when Zayn comes hurrying down the staircase behind Harry, winding a Ravenclaw scarf around his neck. He goes zooming past Harry with hardly more than a smile and a wave, leaving Harry to stare after him and watch him join the others from the window. Niall claps Zayn on the shoulder when he joins them and Harry smiles.

 “Harry,” Louis calls then, voice echoing up to the rafters as he strolls down the stairs, hands in the pockets of a black robe patterned with silvery spider webs. “I’m _so_ sorry, I’m terrible with time. You ready?”

Harry spins around, nodding.

“Your robes are superb,” Louis says, eyeing them admiringly. “How on earth did you get them to do that?”

Harry looks down at his robes. They’re enchanted like pictures and paintings to move and change; a moon rises over a hill upon which sits a decrepit house, not unlike the Shrieking Shack, while bats fly through the purple night sky, cats stalk mice in the undergrowth along a nearby pond, and lights flicker on in the windows. All of it flows through the fabric, rippling like waves.

“Oh, Niall did ’em for me! I changed them, of course, but he got it all moving the way I wanted to.”

Louis looks at him, amazed. “Thought you told me you were rubbish at Transfiguration?”

“Well,” Harry says, unable to stifle a grin, “can’t go showing you all my cards, can I?”

“No,” Louis says, falling in step with Harry as they walk down the stairs together, arms brushing, “I guess not.”

Hogsmeade is chilly that morning and Harry’s glad he brought along one of the scarves he’d knitted himself while he was on holiday in Ireland with Niall. Niall thought it was awful that anyone could be dexterous with such terrible hangovers like theirs, but Harry had always figured action, rather than inaction, was the best cure for that sort of thing so he’d knitted three scarves and a pair of socks the entire time they were there. If he wasn’t mistaken, Niall was wearing those socks that morning, so who was laughing now?

They spend the entire morning darting into shops, meandering through, footsteps slow and careful as they look at everything, hardly talking in more than a whisper. At Dervish & Banges, Harry is completely enamored with the pocket watches and the ones that show the starry sky rather than a traditional watch face and when they stop in at Gladrags, Louis insists on buying Harry a pair of gloves, as it seems he forgot his at home in Holmes Chapel. They’re kneazle fur, completely cruelty-free, and they’re so warm that Harry can’t stop himself from curling his fingers into fists every few minutes to feel the softness on his skin. He doesn’t stop thanking Louis for the next two shops they go in to.

They take a horrific amount of time at Honeyduke’s, over an hour, with Louis buying nearly half the store. When Harry just stares at him, he shrugs and says, “Sweet tooth.” The way he grins afterward ought to be illegal and Harry is so distracted that he doesn’t even notice Louis taking his hand in his until they’re outside in the frosty air and his cheeks are warm for more reason than one. His fingers twitch and Louis smirks.

At Dogweed and Deathcap, Harry’s absolutely mad for a bunch of bluebells that are growing from within a pot beside the door, much to Louis’ confusion. “My first night at Hogwarts, the Ravenclaw trapdoor gave us a riddle. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“And? How’s it go?”

Harry smiles, closing his eyes. “What looks like a bell, but does not ring, yet its knell makes the angels sing?”

“Bluebells?”

“Bluebells.”

“Hm. I wonder why?”

“Some Scottish folklore, I think, about seeing them being a sign of your death. Zayn would know, I bet.”

“He would. Wonder if we’ll see him at the Three Broomsticks for lunch?”

They leave and Harry notices that Louis doesn’t take his hand again. It’s understandable, he thinks. There are students everywhere and he’s not certain what the official policies are about relationships among co-workers. And Louis is definitely _not_ snogging Zayn. That thought doesn’t even cross Harry’s mind, not once, nor does any semblance of potential jealousy. Nope. 

If Zayn and Niall are around, they aren’t at the Three Broomsticks, but they’d never know with how crowded it is. The two of them finally manage a table for a bracing lunch of stew with butterbeer to wash it down with; it warms Harry from the tip of his chilled nose down to his numb toes. When he catches Louis staring at him, he frowns and Louis absolutely dissolves into _giggles_ , breathless and charming. 

“You’ve got foam on your face,” he says. “Here.” He reaches across the table, wiping it off Harry’s upper lip with his thumb. He brings his thumb to his own mouth and licks it off, winking at Harry when he realizes he’s watching. Harry flushes and Louis doesn’t stop grinning for the entire meal.

Warmer now and cheerful, almost able to forget all the questions he has, Harry’s ready to follow Louis back out into the brisk afternoon air. They pass Weasley Wizard Wheezes and Louis sighs wistfully. “Those were the days, mate,” he says and Harry grins, remembering his fair bit of trouble. The Weasleys’ products were banned, of course, but that didn’t stop anyone.

Harry absolutely has to stop in at Tomes and Scrolls to peruse their journal section; he’s got one that’s running out of pages and their leather-bound work is some of the best. He can feel Louis watching him as he talks about how many journals he goes through and how he loves the smell of their pages, not quite filled with ink yet. He wonders if Louis thinks he’s a prat, but when he sneaks a glance at him, Louis’s gaze is unadulterated curiosity and genuine interest. Harry’s lungs fill with a soft tickling every time he takes a breath.

They spend the next hour at Dominic Maestro’s, the music place, talking about instruments. Harry isn’t surprised, with his delicate hands, but Louis can play the guitar and piano, and Harry is so eager for a demonstration that Louis can’t say no; he plays Tchaikovsky’s “Piano Concerto No. 1, Op. 23” on the piano for sale, and the woman behind the counter who is repairing a violin taps her wand along, turning the violin different colors: teal, purple, silver. Harry feels like that violin, different emotions swirling over his skin, completely lost in the music and the sight of Louis’ fingers playing effortlessly, madly, over the ivory keys. His eyes flick from Louis’ hands to his face and back again. His eyes are closed, his tongue sticking out just over the edge of his bottom lip in concentration. The spider webs on his robes are purple; as Harry watches, they soften to rose.

When he’s finished, the shop seems too quiet, the silence pressing in on them. Harry thinks there should always be music—music and Louis.

“That was…” Harry shakes his head, amazement taking all the words from his mouth. “Incredible, Lou.”

Louis glances up at him, lips quirking up at the impromptu nickname. Harry can’t help himself; music has always made him feel closer to people. “Thank you, Haz. My mum would be happy, she did pay a very talented witch to come and enchant our piano to teach me how to play.”

“Really?”

He nods, reaching out a hand for Harry to take. Harry does, helping him over the bench and back onto his feet. “Yeah, it used to play this awful sound whenever I would get something wrong. I used to wake up sometimes in the middle of the night thinking I heard that sound.” He rolls his eyes. “Lottie, the little brat, she used to purposely come over and hit all the keys when I was practicing so it would just drone on and on. Used to drive mum nuts, and me as well!”

Harry can still hear the music in his head when they leave and walk a ways down the street, avoiding the muddy puddles that have formed in the ruts of carriage tracks, a myriad footprints hardening into fossils this way and that. Harry wraps his scarf more tightly around his neck, shivering as they approach the nearest shop. There’s a crowd of students outside, faces pressed to the glass of the windows, and when Harry sees the name over the shop it makes perfect sense. Spintwitches, the sporting goods store. Of course.

As they’re walking past, Louis mentioning something about tea, Niall and Zayn come out of Spintwitches, Niall with a bag swinging from one gloved hand. Rather than a wizarding hat, he’s got on a dark blue knit cap. Zayn, too, has a fleece hat with earflaps that makes him look absolutely sweet, like a puppy that’s just begging to be petted.

Zayn edges away from Niall when he sees Harry and Louis approaching, like Harry won’t notice. Harry glances between them as Louis asks how their day has been. Niall responds in his typical sunny, loud fashion and Louis laughs, louder, if that’s even possible. Zayn is watching Niall with the sickest, saddening expression on his face that feels to Harry just like a punch in the gut. He recognizes it because he’s almost certain it’s the same way he looks whenever Louis is in the same room.

Harry slants a sharp glance in Niall’s direction; he is showing Louis whatever it is that he bought inside, probably more polish for his broomsticks. Harry rolls his eyes. _Utterly oblivious._

“Where are you headin’ after this?” Niall asks, looking at the two of them.

Harry and Louis exchange a look. “Tea?” they ask at the same time and Harry blushes, the other three laughing, Louis more softly now.

“Tea,” he agrees with Harry. “I know Madam Puddifoot’s is where all the kids go to snog in booths, but she has the best Yorkshire.”

“Not only that,” Harry jumps in, “but she always does the place up for holidays. I want to see the decorations!”

“ _Right_ ,” Niall says, nodding. “The decorations. ’Course.”

“You two should come,” Harry says. It’s totally spontaneous, just falling out of his mouth as most words tend to do when he gets ideas in a flash. Louis’ head snaps around towards him, but his expression is one of admiration and wonder, like Harry just said something ingenious.

“Can’t,” Niall says, tilting his head toward Zayn. “Liam invited us for a drink with his girlfriend at the Three Broomsticks. Sure we can’t convince you to join _us_? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Louis shakes his head quickly. “Nah, we’re just going to have a bit of tea to warm up and then Harry’s got plans. Right?”

Right, of course. He nearly forgot, he’s got dinner with Gemma and _her_ girlfriend that evening. He finds that, despite that word _casual_ and how it rankles, he’s having such a wonderful time that he almost doesn’t want to go. He wants this bit of aimless wandering with Louis to continue on, until silly words like casual don’t have meaning anymore and they’re the only people left out there when the gaslights come on and sleet begins to fall and everything is sparkly and shiny beneath the stars.

He nods, remembering the conversation at hand. “Right, yeah. Dinner with Gem and her Mysterious Girl.”

“Do you know the Mysterious Girl’s name yet?” Niall asks.

Harry nods. “Uh. E-something. You know, I’ve actually forgotten.”

Niall laughs at him and rolls his eyes. Zayn shuffles, his hands in his pockets, and Harry feels the chill in the air then more acutely. Louis nods from beside him, though nothing has actually been said. “We should probably get going, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says and they say goodbye. Louis hugs Zayn and whispers something in his ear that makes Zayn smile slowly and he pats Louis on the side of his head.

They leave, walking slowly side by side back down the street. Harry watches, hands clasped in his warm, lovely gloves, his eyebrows raised at them. There was nothing subtle about Zayn’s expression, and nothing but blindness in Niall’s.

When he looks at Louis, it seems he’s thinking the same thing, frowning. “How do I gently tell Zayn that it’s never going to happen—because Niall _is_ straight, isn’t he?”

That sentence alone reassures Harry that Louis and Zayn are just friends, not that he was worrying about it…much. He shrugs.

“Honestly? I haven’t a clue. There’s hardly a serious word out of his mouth. Some nonsense about the Blarney Stone probably applies.” He and Louis begin walking as well, bodies moving in sync. “The better question: is anyone straight anymore?”

“I’m certainly not,” Louis says, grinning. “As for anyone else—well, there’s only a few people’s sexuality that I’m interested in knowing about.”

Harry doesn’t need a background in drama to know a cue when he hears one. “Mine being one of them?”

“Well, if you’re volunteering. It saves me asking outright.”

“You could ask. I don’t mind.” _You could ask me anything._

“All right. Gay as a maypole?”

Harry smiles as they cross the street, coming up on Madam Puddifoot’s. “More than anything in this wide world. I flirted with the idea of bisexuality for a while, trying to force it, but it’s just not me.”

“You and your sister both, huh? Your parents are blessed.” Louis scoffs a second later, rolling his eyes. “I think mine expected something a bit different, but what’s it matter when you’ve got a household of girls anyway? I fit right in.”

“Let me guess: You talked about boys together.”

“God, no. Okay, well, maybe a bit with Lottie, but she’s got terrible taste. Mostly, I just threatened to hex any sort of boyfriend they might have. They’re all a bit young for that.”

“Do you really think so?”

Louis opens the door for Harry and a skull hanging in the doorway cackles at them, welcoming them inside with a supposedly menacing albeit squeaky voice. “They’re just kids, Haz. What could they possibly know about that sort of thing yet?”

Harry thinks back to how young he was the first time he snogged someone. It was, surprisingly, at home in Holmes Chapel, over the summer. It was just a quick thing with a boy he knew from a village over; he played football in the field between their villages and Harry watched him sometimes. After that, it was boys at Hogwarts, their hands shaking in hidden corridors behind paintings and tapestries, their mouths hot and eager upon his. He lost his virginity at sixteen. How young was too young when you think you’re in love?

He shrugs, the two of them walking inside. He’s always liked Madam Puddifoot’s, even if it is a bit small and crowded. Round tables sit just about everywhere they can fit and on them are frilled lace tablecloths. Large pink bows are tied around the back of every chair, or at least, they used to be; today, they’re orange and black. Instead of bats like at Hogwarts, there are tiny little pixies on broomsticks dressed as ugly witches in miniature dresses and hats, cackling gleefully and throwing vivid green powder at people as they pass. One zooms by Harry and nearly takes his hat off, blowing a raspberry at him as it goes. He makes a face at it in return.

The boiling of all the tea makes it far warmer than outside and as they sit down at one of the only tables left, Harry’s already shucking his gloves and hat, Louis following suit.

“How can I help ya, sweeties?” Madam Puddifoot asks. Her greying black hair is pulled up into a tight bun, and sticking out of it are two purple and green pom-poms that glitter in the light. Harry can’t stop looking at them.

“I’ll have a Yorkshire and—a coffee?” Louis asks Harry. He nods eagerly. “Yeah, a coffee. Thanks, love.”

Madam Puddifoot smiles and winks at him for that, patting his arm as she dashes off. In the time it takes for their order to come back, Harry talks a bit about Gemma some more, explaining about how she’s shy about this new girlfriend of hers, as it’s becoming quite serious.

“She sounds really wonderful,” Louis says, his eyes flicking to the top of Harry’s head. “I’d love to meet her.”

 _Oh_. Harry hadn’t even considered that, but now, he’s realizing all at once: He should invite Louis to dinner with them. It’s the right thing to do, and besides, he doesn’t want this day to end. He wants this to continue through the night, into the morning, and onto forever. He knows it’s a bit silly, but he’s never, in all his life, met someone like Louis and felt such a quick connection with them. It feels real in a way that nothing else has, nothing but those stars Harry can always count on to be winking down from the sky.

“You know—” Harry starts but a peal of harmonious laughter falls in spirals from Louis’ lips, his eyes crinkling.

“A pixie just sprinkled nearly a whole pouch of that dust in your hair,” he says, pointing. “You’ve got green curls now. You’re like a forest boy.”

Harry raises a hand to touch his hair, gingerly, when Madam Puddifoot arrives with their cups. She laughs gaily at Harry, planting her hands on her hips. “One of my pixies got a bit wild, eh? Not to worry, love, it’s nothing dangerous, just a bit of their dust turned green. Took a fancy to you, I imagine. Not unlike this one.” Madam Puddifoot shakes Louis’ shoulder gently. “I’ve seen this young man in here with quite a few, but none as enchanting as you, m’lad. The stars in these eyes, Merlin’s beard!”

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” Louis says, grinning fiercely, almost baring his teeth. “We’ll pay on the way out.”

Madam Puddifoot waves a hand at him and bustles off to another couple nearby. Harry watches her go, stifling a laugh. When he looks back at Louis, he’s holding his rose-patterned tea cup with a look of exasperation. “It’s like being at home,” he says, shrugging. “That’s why I come in here so often. Not to—y’know, woo my way through Hogwarts.”

Harry pretends to pout. “You mean I don’t get to be another one of your fancies?”

“Not _just_ another one, no,” Louis says seriously. The steam rising from his cup almost obscures his eyes, but Harry can feel his look all the same. It’s stripping him bare, leaving him defenseless. Never has another person made him feel so utterly naked, even with all his clothes on.

The words come tumbling out, as they so often do. “Can I ask you something?”

“’Course.”

“Do you really believe that people can be too young to think they’re in love?”

“To _think_ they’re in love? No. To actually be in love?” He blinks, lashes long and soft. “I don’t know.”

“But your sisters—”

“—are my sisters. I’m always going to be a prick when it comes to them, there’s no avoiding it.” He takes an experimental sip of his tea, eyes never leaving Harry’s over the rim of his cup. “What about you? Were you a victim of young love?”

“More like a parishioner.”

“Ah, you prayed at that altar, I take it?”

“Something like that.” Harry shrugs. “I…I had fun. I wanted what I wanted and I got it. But that was then.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m…” He’s never liked speaking about this for this exact reason. He’s only eighteen and the world is cruel to teenagers who think they’ve seen a lot, who think they know what they want, who feel it more deeply than anything they’ve ever known. _But they don’t know me._ Looking in Louis’ eyes, though, he imagines he can tell him just about anything and not a single flicker of judgment will enter those features, those eyes staring back at him as honest as can possibly be. He’s never felt that way about someone before, not even poor hapless Niall.

But that word _casual_ is still hanging around, like a bothersome smell that Harry can’t get rid of. He wants to tell Louis, wants to pour out every emotion and feeling he has for him, wants him to know that he’s never known anyone like him before, but he’s frightened. This could be it, this could be _real_ , Louis could be The One—and to scare him off now would be devastating. So Harry clings to _casual_ like a life raft, keeping his head above the rushing waters.

“Casual,” he says, looking down at his cup. “Y’know, just sort of trying to figure myself out.”

“That’s smart. I wish I’d done a bit of that when I was your age.”

Now that is a subject change that Harry can get behind. “Speaking of, how old are you, exactly?”

“Twenty-two. I’ll be twenty-three this December, but I still feel about seventeen. D’you ever wonder if your brain got stuck somewhere while the rest of you went on and kept aging?”

Harry nods. His cup of coffee is warm in his hands. He grabs his spoon, catching a glimpse of his distorted reflection in the silver. His hair is indeed dusted with green. _Forest boy._ He likes that. Maybe it’s a fashion decision to consider. 

 “Every day of my life.”

Louis leans back in his chair. “Can I ask _you_ something now, Harry? It’s a bit personal.”

“Sure, anything.” He means it.

“I overheard Niall telling Zayn you just came back from holiday and he was talking about all the places you’ve been. I’ve been wondering, which was your favorite and why?”

Harry smiles. “That’s _such_ a teacher question to ask.”

“Guilty.” Louis raises his eyebrows. “ _Soooo_?”

Harry blinks. Even when he told Niall all about his adventures across the world, Niall never asked him that. Which _was_ his favorite? He thinks about the pyramids of Peru, once assembled by ancient magic; the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, gilded and glittering in the sunlight dripping over the horizon; he thinks of the magical communities in the backwaters of Kerala, India, where he levitated up to the heights of a great waterfall; he thinks of the chilly Himalayas and the blistering sands of Egypt, the winding stone streets of Tangier and the wildflowers of western Australia. Which, of them all, is his favorite?

“I think,” he says slowly, “China. I went to a lot of amazing places, of course. But I think China was my favorite.”

“Why?”

“I went backpacking to this place called the Loess Plateau. The land there is…incredible. There are these grassy canyons and the soil is this really odd mixture, it’s yellow silt from the river and it’s very fertile, but really easily eroded so they lose a lot of it. It’s actually quite bad, that. But it’s my favorite because of the people there.”

Louis sets his cup down, listening intently with his chin in his hand.

“There are all these people, and they live in _caves_.” Harry laughs suddenly. “That sounds awful, like they’re primitive or something, but they’re _not_ , it’s just easy to live in these grooves in the plateau walls, it protects them from the wind and the rain. They’re called _yaodongs_. They have almost entirely modern lives in these caves and they farm on the plateau’s heights. It was breathtaking, really.”

He shakes his head, staring off into the distance, as though he can still see those ridges. “They were Muggles, but some of the nicest ones I’ve ever met. A family let me stay with them as long as I pitched in, and I got to help the oldest son and his father with their corn. It was just…simple.  I don’t speak Mandarin at all and none of them spoke English, but we understood each other anyway. I—I can’t describe it, really. It was all hand gestures and facial expressions. To me, that was truly magical, that we could bridge this gap between us and still be heard.” He sighs. “It was easy for me to imagine that being my life. No cities, no wild noise. Just the sun and the wind and the roaring Yellow River.”

Harry shrugs, realizing how that must sound aloud, suddenly self-conscious. Louis asked a simple question, not for him to prattle on about his most intimate thoughts. He’s never told anyone any of this, not even Gemma, not even his mum and Robin. “I, uh. I don’t know. That’s boring stuff, maybe we can—”

“Not,” Louis says boldly. “ _Not_ boring. That was—” He stops, shaking his head. “Harry.”

 _That_ gets his attention; Louis hardly calls him by his name, not like that. “Yeah?” Harry bites his bottom lip. He wishes he didn’t feel like a sixteen-year-old stumbling through feelings all over again.

Louis is still shaking his head, as if he can’t believe he’s real, as if he can’t believe who is sitting across from him. “I’ve never met anyone like you before in my entire life.”

Harry knows it right then and there as he lifts his cup, taking a sip of his coffee. It warms every part of him in soft swaths as he smiles. This is it, this is the end.

He’s in love with Louis Tomlinson.

As they leave Madam Puddifoot’s, she urges them to take a couple of the free masks in the bowl at the front of the shop. “For your students,” she calls and some heads turn to look at them. Harry blushes, wondering if the whispers will spread that evening about Professors Tomlinson and Styles at _the_ Madam Puddifoot’s. After all, the place does have a bit of a reputation.

 _But nothing happened_ , Harry thinks. _Nothing but utter devastation, anyway_. As soon as he saw Louis, he knew this was going to be a problem. He should’ve known he’d fall head over heels in a way he never had before. One stumble through a particular doorway at just the right moment and he was gone. Fate _did_ exist and she had a sense of humor if he ever saw one. 

They’re just paper with bits of string, but they do take two of the masks. Harry’s is a werewolf, Louis’ a pixie, which Harry thinks is almost eerily accurate, with his elfin features and mischievous grins.

Louis puts his on the moment they’re out on the road again, turning the corner onto High Street. Hardly anyone is around now with the day nearing evening, most of the students making their way back up to the castle in time to change and join everyone for dinner. Only a few stragglers and Hogsmeade residents remain, pointing at shop windows and milling about in cheerful conversation. Their breath turns to mist in the air.

“I had a really great time today,” Harry says, looking at Louis. He laughs at the snarling pixie face that returns his attention.

“Me too,” Louis says, voice muffled slightly. He pokes at the face of the mask, saying, “Aren’t these supposed to actually change your head? I don’t think the spell’s working.”

“Must be a bit old. Who knows how long she’s had them?”

“True. I bet I could get them to change.” Louis starts rooting around in his robes for his wand. The spiderwebs on his robes are a vivid red.

Harry slides his own mask on, peering at Louis through the eyeholes cut into it. Something about wearing a mask makes him feel braver, like he can do just about anything in that moment, say anything, _ask_ anything.

“Louis, do you want to come to Gemma’s with me? I know she wouldn’t mind.”

Louis stops his wild search, standing up straight and looking at Harry. He tilts his head and Harry nearly laughs again at that ridiculous face looking back at him. “You sure?”

“Of course.” Harry clears his throat. “I want you to come with me.”                                       

Louis looks at him for a long minute, not saying a word. Finally, he closes the distance between them, cupping Harry by the back of the neck and bringing his mouth down to his. They’re kissing through the masks but he swears he can feel it just the same and nobody knows it’s them, nobody at all.

When Louis releases him, he’s smiling, Harry can tell. “I’d love to.”

They leave the masks on and when they walk down the street, heading for the village proper, they do it hand in hand.

* * *

Gemma’s girlfriend is named Eleanor and as it turns out, she’s the pretty clerk from Honeyduke’s who waited on them just that afternoon. They have a lovely time together chatting over Gemma’s homemade dish of lasagne and salad, and Louis spends the most time talking to her of them all, asking for stories of Harry’s childhood. Gemma is all too eager to accommodate and they spend most of the meal in fits at his expense, but he doesn’t even care; it’s worth it to have beautiful Louis Tomlinson laughing alongside his sister. It almost feels like there’s something clairvoyant in the air, like this is some divine glimpse into what could be his future. He makes a mental note to ask Professor Trelawney sometime soon. 

After, when he’s helping Gemma clean up in the kitchen, the other two left to make idle conversation over their beers, he sends her a shifty grin. “So, Eleanor’s nice.”

“Isn’t she?” Gemma sighs. “I’ve been absolutely mad worrying over this, haven’t I?”

“Absolutely. She’s lovely. Mum and Robin’ll love her.”

“You think so?”

Harry nods and Gemma digs her elbow into his side as she charms the pots and pans into the dishwasher, making sure they all fit nicely. “What about you, huh? No way I believe he’s just a co-worker, not the way he was looking at you.”

Harry’s heart stutters. “Was he?”

“Completely. Like you make all the flowers grow. He’s amazing, Harry, really. Is there anything there, even a little?”

Harry smiles slowly. “I hope so.”

“Good, because I really like him. He’s fun. Cheeky.” She grins, sticking her tongue out as she shuts the dishwasher with a snap.

“I really like him, too,” Harry says, looking out the window. He can see the lights of Hogsmeade, gilded and haloed, stretching all the way back to the castle, its towers shining down. His tower is dark tonight, because his light is down here, on earth, where it belongs.

 _I’m not just looking for fun, I’m looking forever,_ he thinks. _But is Louis?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In learning you..." - Phil Collins; Son of Man  
> supply teacher - the British equivalent of 'substitute teacher'


	2. stars pt. i

November arrives swiftly. Frost begins to sparkle on the grassy hills and the lake is smooth as glass, sending every orange and purple sunset dazzling back to Harry’s eyes when he looks down from his balcony. The Whomping Willow’s stark branches reach up towards the sky like thin-fingered hands, reaching for those stars Harry likes to dream of. He considers visiting it one of these days, just to say hello.

The first week of the month, he notices his students are more fidgety than usual and constantly whispering in class, leading him to rebuke them, gently, several times. He also notices several of them in each class falling asleep, as though they’re not getting enough on the regular. He’s concerned, until Friday morning at breakfast, Niall informs him of what all the chatter is about.

“The first Quidditch match, Harry, c’mon!” He plops down beside Harry at the table in their usual spot, Liam on his other side, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast. “Gryffindor and Slytherin, eh? Great rivalry.”

He and the lads, as he comes to call them, always sit together at one end of the table. Niall and Liam are always there first because they’re mad for exercise and Niall is always filled with the energy of the sun; Louis arrives usually after Harry does, hair wonderfully tousled, eyes bright and eager. He sits on Harry’s other side every day without fail. Zayn is the last to arrive because he’s _not_ a morning person; the only thing that will get him out of bed at sunrise is a _Levicorpus_ spell and Louis’ said it hasn’t stopped him in the past, playfully winking in Harry’s direction.

“Oh, right!” Harry reaches for the eggs nearest him and begins sliding some onto his plate. “I’d nearly forgotten.”

Niall’s eyes nearly fall out of his head. “ _Forgotten_? Harry. This is Quidditch.” He says it as though that’s explanation enough.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit distracted lately.” Around a mouthful of oatmeal and berries, he says, “You never told me how hard this would be when you were selling me this gig.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Can’t be any harder than our N.E.W.T.s, can it? I think we did more work then, to be honest.”

That’s rich, coming from Niall. Not only is he the Head of Hufflepuff, but he’s also the orchestra maestro, Charms professor, _and_ flying instructor/Quidditch referee. Harry doesn’t want to admit that Niall just might be better at all this than him—but Niall has more practice, so _obviously_ —and the conversation ends with Harry shoveling more food in his mouth and shrugging ineffectually.

Like clockwork, Louis strides into the Great Hall then, already grinning at the sight of them. “Quidditch tomorrow, eh Niall?” is the first thing he says and they chat excitedly over Harry for the next twenty minutes. He considers asking if they’d like to just sit next to each other if that’s all they’re going to do, an unexpected twisting feeling churning in his stomach, but Louis peers at him then over a goblet of what looks like tea.

“What about you, Curly?” He reaches over, casual as anything, and yanks gently on one of Harry’s curls. If this was a cartoon, it’d go _boooiing_ , and Harry’s eyes would turn into hearts, beating expressively out of his face. “You a fan?”

Harry blushes, swallowing his mouthful of food, nodding and shrugging at the same time. “Bit, yeah. I never played myself, but I always went to the matches.”

Louis grins. “All the matches?”

“Yeah, when I could. Why?”

“You must’ve seen me play, then.”

_There_ , right there, that’s it. Louis has always seemed familiar to Harry, but he could never put his finger on exactly why. Now it’s so clear, he feels like an absolute mug; how could he not have realized it before? _Louis Tomlinson._ There are only half a dozen trophies in the Trophy Room emblazoned with his name, if not more. Harry should know; he and Niall polished enough of them to last several lifetimes.

He nods enthusiastically. “I have, actually! I remember you now, you’re—” _That fit Chaser of Slytherin, the one who was a seventh year when I was just thirteen._ Harry’s cheeks go rosy beneath Louis’ waiting stare. “Um, you were on the team! Captain, weren’t you?”

Louis nods, too. “Just the last two years.”

“Yeah, you made that incredible goal from nearly the bottom of the pitch, weren’t you falling?”

“Wait a minute,” Liam says, leaning forward so he can see them around Niall. “You remember that, but you didn’t remember I was a Beater of Gryffindor for a good five years?”

“Easy explanation for that, Liam,” Louis says, leaning back in his chair smoothly, “I’m better looking than you.”

“You wish,” Liam says, mouth full of porridge, and Louis makes a face at him, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. Harry feels like he’s back in school again as a student and he can’t help but laugh.

That’s when he notices Louis’ arm is on the back of his chair, fingers resting a breadth away from his shoulder. He tries not to shiver, tries not to dwell on it as they finish their breakfast. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but Harry allows himself the small measure of hope that maybe it does. It’s a fool’s hope, maybe, but hope all the same.

“Oi,” Niall says, glancing at Harry as they’re leaving the Great Hall. “How come whenever I talk about Quidditch, I’m boring, but suddenly he talks about Qudditch and you remember things _I_ told you like, five years ago?”

“You didn’t,” Harry says, pointing at Niall and pretending to cast a spell on him. “I remember the trophy, I had to polish it because of that incident with the chandelier that was _your_ fault.”

“Ooh, all righ’, _Gilderoy Lockhart._ ” Niall rolls his eyes. “Seriously, have your memories been messed with? The chandelier was all you. I was the suit of armor.”

Harry grins slowly to himself because Niall’s absolutely right, the chandelier _was_ all him. Sort of. It was a trick he’d heard about that several former students had played before he started at Hogwarts. It didn’t quite work out the same way, leading him to the Trophy Room to polish for nearly two hours under the watchful eyes of Argus Filch, the slimy git.

“Yeah, well, Louis was right, wasn’t he?” Harry asks as they stop outside the Charms classroom on the second floor. “He’s just better looking than Liam. And you.”

Niall tries to swipe at him, but a gaggle of students rounds the corner at that moment and he has to pretend as though he’s picking fluff off Harry’s sleeve instead. Harry laughs up three flights of stairs on the way to his tower.

* * *

Saturday dawns chilly and misty, clouds hanging low in the sky to touch the tops of the towers of Hogwarts. When Harry strolls out to the balcony, taking deep breaths of fresh morning air, cup of coffee in hand, he tastes rain on his tongue.

When he arrives at the Great Hall, everyone is buzzing about the match and the weather, especially, eyes to the magical sky within the hall, the clouds hovering over everyone menacingly. Lightning flashes within them, a rumble of thunder following, and Niall practically drops his head onto his plate, groaning.

“Rain,” he grumbles. “Just figures.”

“Hey, I’m sure you’ll be amazing,” Harry says, nudging him softly. “I’m excited to see you officiate with or without sunshine.”

“It’s a right bugger to the eyes, though, innit?” Niall sighs, wincing. “I should’ve known. My knee’s killin’ me.”

“You should go see Madam Pomfrey. She might be able to help.”

Niall nods. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that. I’ll see you on the pitch?”

Harry nods as well, standing to give Niall a hand. “Want me to walk you?”

“Nah, I’ll just…” He waves his wand and he’s floats, levitating about six inches off the ground. With another flick of his wand, he’s moving away through the air, skirting the tables, heading for the doors out. Students point and laugh when he floats past them and some of the first years gasp and clap with delight. Niall vanishes with a jaunty wave that’s more akin to his personality and Harry smiles, knowing he’ll cheer up soon at the sheer prospect of Quidditch being played in his presence.

Louis and Liam arrive with Zayn a moment later, but the former are bickering. As they get closer, Harry realizes it’s over the same thing everyone else is chatting about: Quidditch.

“No, that’s not right at all, is it?” Liam’s saying, dark eyebrows creased in a frown. “Puddlemere won that year, didn’t they? I swear it was them.”

“ _Puddlemere_? Are you joking?” Louis looks around. “Where’s Niall? He’d know.”

“Yeah, where’s Niall?” Zayn asks, looking around hopefully.

“Went to the Hospital Wing,” Harry says.  “His knee was acting up because of the weather.”

“Oh, yeah,” Liam says, looking up at the ceiling. “Looks like a bad one.”

“I can waterproof you, if you’d like. Niall’s better at it, but I’ll do in a pinch,” Louis says, sitting down beside Harry. Liam thanks him, before one of the other professors calls him over to ask him a question.

Louis, meanwhile, begins loading up his plate. “Good morning, Haz. Are you excited for the game?”

He is, but only because he’s going to try and sit next to Louis in the stands. The idea of sitting beside him for a few hours, taking in a thrilling game of Quidditch, is more than enough for him. There’s nothing like live sports to get the blood going.  

He nods. “You?”

“’Course.” Louis’ robes are an inky dark green today and Harry shouldn’t smile at the idea of him flouting the rules against teacher favoritism, but he does anyway. He doesn’t remember seeing much of Louis away from the Quidditch pitch when they were students—too many years between them—but he knows how the team robes looked on him then and he can say whole-heartedly that the silver and green of Slytherin have always looked wonderful on him. Not that anything _wouldn’t_ ; Harry thinks Louis could dress as one of those awful Elvis impersonators in Las Vegas and he would still tip him in twenties.

“So can I just say,” Louis says, cutting into his pancakes, “your robes are _fabulous_ yet again. Truly incredible.”

Harry looks down at the purple robes he’s wearing. McGonagall seemed pretty strict about the no-favoritism thing and since it’s pretty obvious Harry isn’t exactly her favorite employee (that’s clearly Louis), he decided to take it at least somewhat seriously.

“Oh, thanks.” Harry points to Louis. “Yours are ace as well.”

“Yeah, I _could_ be nice but I’d really like to see Gryffindor lose. Besides, Liam and I put money down so there’s always that added incentive as well.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen galleons.”

Harry whistles. “Well, for that much, I may have to go for Slytherin as well.”

Louis smiles slowly, sweet and warm as the syrup dripping from his fork. “You can be my good luck charm.”

Harry’s knees tremble under the table and he has to shift to stop himself from tackling Louis to the floor and showering him in kisses, among _many_ other things that would no doubt be unsuitable in front of the assemblage gathered in the Great Hall.

He manages a smile, though it feels shaky on his face, bound to crack. “Great,” he says. “Happy to be.”

“You know,” Zayn says, eyes still half-lidded from sleep, inky black hair mussed slightly. “Purple is considered a royal color. A lot of witches and wizards throughout history have been known to wear purple robes. It’s a symbol of power.”

Louis slants a glance at Harry. “Suits you. Don’t you think, Zayn?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He grins cheekily. “It’d look better on me, though.”

Louis laughs. “That’s not fair, Zayn. Everything looks better on you.” Louis leans over, his breath warm as he bends in close to Harry like he has a secret, like they’re suddenly partners in crime. “Zayn here thinks he’s _so_ wonderful lately because he’s Mr. Popular.”

Harry glance slides towards Zayn. “Mr. Popular?”

Louis leans onto his hand, fluttering his eyelashes innocently at Harry. “Oh, you haven’t heard? Zayn’s classes are _filled_ to the brim with eager young minds ready for molding. Isn’t that right, Professor Malik?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re out of it, Louis.”

“I had tea with McGonagall the other day,” Louis says to Harry, like they’re gossipy gals over china cups of tea and little white cakes. “Evidently everyone is completely enamored with Zayn’s classes. You know how Binns was boring as an old boot? Well, Zayn’s got everyone actually _wanting_ to go to class.”

Harry looks up, amazement lighting his eyes. “How do you do it?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re there purely for his good looks. It’s the only reason he was hired as well, I’m sure of it. Objectification at its finest.”

Zayn raises his index and middle fingers in a V shape, sending a withering look at Louis. Over his steaming goblet of coffee, it looks even more threatening.

“Ooh, see? I know where that’s from, the Battle of Agincourt. You learn something new every day with Zayn here.” Louis puts his chin in his hand and stares at him, eyes glimmering playfully. Harry is on the verge of choking on his orange slices; he can hardly breathe, trying to keep from laughing.

When Zayn just glares at Louis over the rim of his goblet, Louis laughs, sitting up. “Oh, you know I’m only playing with you.” He glances at Harry. “He really is amazing.”

“How?” Harry asks again, counting on Louis not interrupting this time.

“It’s not so hard. And,” Zayn says quickly, “it’s not a reflection on Binns at all, but—well, it’s proven, innit? Kids lose focus on lectures after like, about fifteen, twenty minutes. So I have different activities for them. I start off with the lecture and then we get interactive.” He blushes slightly, cheeks turning beautifully red. “I bring a bit of art into it.”

“It’s genius, Haz,” Louis says sincerely this time, touching his arm. “You should see it. He does this bit of magic where he actually _makes_ the battles or the treaty signing or whatever, he draws them out and charms them into moving, and when he brings the chessboard to class, oh they _love_ it—”

Zayn’s blush deepens and Louis laughs again. “I’m sorry Zayn, but you’ve got to admit how wonderful it is! It’s no wonder—” He breaks off suddenly, closing his mouth, finishing the last of his breakfast with a smile.

“No wonder what?”

“It’s a secret,” Louis says to Harry. “I’ll tell you later.”

Zayn frowns. “What? That’s not fair!”

“You’ll get over it.” Louis stands, ruffling Zayn’s hair playfully. “Go see your boy Niall in the Hospital Wing, will you? He could probably use it. I’m going to run to my office quickly and I’ll meet you down at the pitch.” He looks directly at Harry. “Save me a seat, will you?”

Harry nods eagerly. Louis waves and strides away, between the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor table. He pulls out his wand to play tricks on some of the kids he passes, flipping pages of books, braiding locks of hair, and turning one boy’s donut into a bagel. “ _Professor Tomlinson_ ,” the whines go, always on the tail end of laughter. Harry watches him with a smile so wide on his face that he’s surprised his head hasn’t split yet. He puts his chin in his hand and sighs like a lovesick schoolboy. He may as well be, the way things are going.

“So.”

Harry’s gaze slides towards Zayn. “So?”

“Louis, huh?” Zayn asks. His lips quirk up at the corner.

“Oh, go see _your boy_ _Niall_ ,” Harry says, on the verge of sticking his tongue out just like Louis. He’s a terrible influence on him already. 

Zayn blushes again and when Liam returns to their end of the table, they’re both snickering into their hands every time they meet each other’s eyes. Harry can’t wait to see Niall later and ask him _all sorts_ of questions. Liam looks between them, reaching for a carafe of coffee to pour into a goblet. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t know where to begin.

* * *

It hasn’t started raining yet but the air is flush with the promise of it, thick and heavy, when Harry, Zayn, and Liam traipse down to the Quidditch pitch, trailing after the older professors, bundled up in scarfs and hats. Harry’s own hat, perching atop his curly head, has a sprig of heather stuck to it with magic; they passed a wild bunch on their way down to the pitch, blossoms shaped like lovely little purple bells and sprinkled with dew, the color a near-match to his robes, and he couldn’t resist grabbing a couple and placing them gently atop the brim of his hat, pointing his wand at them.

“Those look nice,” Zayn says, glancing at them with a half-smile. Harry’s not sure what it is exactly about grey skies and the threat of rain literally hanging over them, but he thinks it makes everyone look even more beautiful. Maybe it’s the absence of color from the usually vivid sky. It makes everyone around him seem brighter, Liam’s blue robes particularly royal, and Zayn’s eyes a rich amber.

“Thanks. _Calluna vulgaris_.”

“Bless you,” Liam says and Zayn laughs.

The closer they get to the Quidditch pitch, the more crowded it becomes. Harry’s worried they might not get a good enough seat when he remembers all at once that they’re _teachers_ and they don’t need to crowd in with everyone else, they get to take the stairs up to sit behind the score booth. He’s actually quite excited when he realizes that and he takes Zayn’s arm in his, crooked at the elbow, the three of them taking a right on the rickety staircase rather than a left with all the squealing, talking students.

McGonagall is already there, looking as though she wishes she weren’t, as she’s sitting beside aging Professor Slughorn, the Potions master, who is blathering away loudly, his hearing starting to go. On her other side is Professor Trelawney, her hat hardly managing to cover her wild, frizzy hair at all, her glasses enlarging her eyes to at least twice their normal size. She’s listening as Professor Babbling, the Study of Ancient Runes teacher, is explaining something that seems entirely too complex to Harry, her hands making wild motions, as they move to sit on the bench below them.

There are only three professors there on their bench: Septima Vector of Arithmancy, Neville Longbottom of Herbology, and Greg James, of Muggle Studies. Greg sees them and immediately waves them over, grinning brightly. He’s good-looking, with a brilliant smile and carefree brown hair that manages to stick up and look neat all at once, his dark, lively eyes fixing on them happily.

“About time you lot showed up,” he says. “Haven’t had much time to see you all since the start of term.”

“Busy one,” Liam agrees and they embrace in a friendly manner. Zayn shakes his hand, introducing himself and Harry does the same.

“Good to meet you two,” Greg says, the four of them sitting down. “I’m always glad to see new faces here.”

“What is it you teach?” Zayn asks.

“Muggle Studies. It’s a right laugh. Some of these kids, they’re from communities made up entirely of witches and wizards, and though they’re starting to catch up a bit now, the shift in cultures is astounding.” He smiles again. “I also do a bit of the music classes with Niall, but that’s more of a hobby, I think. It’s my passion, not so much my job, you know?”

Harry really likes Greg; he finds him funny and genuine, and they spend the next few minutes talking cheerily, Neville and Septima chiming in as well. There’s a bit of a disturbance behind them when Hagrid takes his seat on the bench above them next to Slughorn, nearly sending the Potions master reeling backwards, but it’s smooth sailing after that.

When Louis finally arrives, he’s wearing a Slytherin scarf and is more than a little windswept, out of breath when he slides down the bench, right into Harry’s left side. “Haven’t missed the start, have I?”

“Not a bit.” Harry glances at him; he’s holding a paper bag of some sort, clutched between his gloved hands. “What’s that?”

“I’m so glad you asked, Harold.” He opens up the bag, offering it to Harry. “Sweets?”

Inside is a motley assortment of candy from Honeyduke’s. Harry looks up at Louis; there’s a mischievous glint to his eyes and a wicked grin on his face. He winks when he sees Harry looking at him. “You can’t very well go to a Quidditch game without a little pick-me-up, can you?”

“We _just_ had breakfast.”

Louis looks scandalized. “Harry, candy is an all-the-time food. Otherwise, dentists would have no jobs.”

“Those aren’t leftovers from Halloween, are they?”

“You think sweets from Honeyduke’s last a week?” He shakes his head. “Sweet tooth aside, I use them as rewards in class. That’s why I buy so many.”

_But then that would mean…_ Harry stares. “Did you just—”

“Make use of the resources available to me as a professor at Hogwarts and take a leisurely stroll down a passageway to the neighboring village?” He nods, glancing around. “But don’t tell McGonagall, she likes the students to think all those are closed up now. When Harry Potter’s biography came out, it caused her a lot of grief, let me tell you.”

“I believe it. You believe he still has that map?”

“I believe he wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world. But some of us don’t need maps.” Louis taps the side of his head with one finger before shaking the bag at Harry. “Take some. I won’t bite. Unless you ask _really_ nicely.”

_Good to know_ , Harry thinks, reaching his hand into the pouch. He pulls out a peppermint frog and pops it into his mouth; it leaps around with a cool, fresh taste and it takes everything in him to keep his mouth shut and not burst into laughter at the sensation.

A chorus of cheers swells then and Harry leans forward. The teams have arrived, walking out onto the pitch in scarlet and emerald, clutching their broomsticks. Niall is with them, wearing black and white stripes, a pair of goggles pushed up on his head. As the players assemble themselves into a circle around Niall, he bends to kick open the trunk carrying the assorted balls, reaching for the Quaffle. He stands, looking up at the platform to McGonagall.

She stands behind them, pointing her wand to her throat, projecting her voice so everyone in the stadium can hear. “Welcome to the first Quidditch match of the year,” she says and everyone cheers, stamping their feet. Harry joins in, incensed by the feeling of Louis pressed beside him. The peppermint frog is bouncing around in his stomach and he giggles, unable to help it. He can feel Louis watching him, can feel every particle passing between them.

“As always,” McGonagall says when the cheers die down, “I expect a fair match from both sides. Is that understood?”

Everyone cheers once more and then the match begins, the players rising into the air. Niall sets the other balls free, the Snitch vanishing in a glimmer of gold. A fourth year that’s in one of Harry’s classes, Rosamund Reed, calls the game down in the score booth. It’s been a long time since he’s seen a Quidditch match and he’s surprised by how fast-paced it can all be, the players zooming past on their broomsticks, the Quaffle moving from hand to hand with an ease that astonishes him. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of them made it to the pros, they’re that good.

 “Gryffindor with the Quaffle—now Slytherin, Kowalski to Voss, Gryffindor steals, Sneed with it, ducking Calvert—quick on his broom, that one—pass to Isaacs, she’s streaking down the pitch, there’s _no_ defense there, she’s going for the goal and—SCORE!”

The Gryffindors erupt, the stands shaking as they pound their feet and scream. Louis groans from beside Harry as Rosamund Reed trills, “What a talent, she absolutely undressed Jacoby, incredible! Ten points to Gryffindor.”

The game resumes with Niall throwing the Quaffle back to the kids and Harry finds himself entranced, head whipping back and forth to keep the Quaffle in sight. The Seekers, St. Pierre and Willoughby, are kept busy looking for the Snitch, avoiding Bludgers that the Beaters send their way when they can. 

“Murray passes, Lynch intercepts—ooh, good dodge from a Bludger, there—Slytherin’s got the Quaffle, Voss is going for the score but—oh, he’s denied by Cheng, bit of fancy broomwork there, what a move! Gryffindor in possession now and— _ooh_ , oh no,” the crowd gasps and groans as a Bludger hits one of the Slytherin Chasers in the collarbone at full speed. “ _Nasty_ hit there, I think Gryffindor’s going to get a penalty. Yes, Professor Horan is blowing his whistle now and…Kowalski is flying down to the pitch, it looks as though he will not be returning to the match. There’ll be a time-out here while they help him off to Madame Pomfrey. Let’s give Kowalski a hand, everyone!”

The stands fill with the sounds of clapping and cheers. Kowalski raises an arm to wave, but yelps in pain and grimaces, reaching for his collarbone. “Bet it’s broken,” Greg says when the cheers die down. “Shame. You hate to see a student in pain like that.”

“Brilliant game so far,” Liam says, puffing out his chest. He leans forward to look past Zayn and Harry. “Eh, Tommo?”

Louis cocks an eyebrow. “What’s that expression, Harry,” Louis asks loudly, putting his hand on Harry’s knee, “about not counting one’s chickens before they hatch?”

Liam grimaces and sits back in his seat. Louis grins quickly and takes his hand away. Harry can still feel it there, like an imprint, a burn in the shape of Louis’ fingers. He wants to say it’s the peppermint frog jumping around in his stomach like a live wire that makes him feel so jittery, but after that touch, he’s not so sure. He wants very badly to kiss Louis in this moment, in the midst of the cheers, in that rushing wall of noise, when it’ll just feel like the two of them, just them and the crowd and the smell of rain in the air.

But their boss is right behind them. And he can’t, no matter how much he wants to.

The sudden realization of that hits him like a fist to the gut and his mood plummets. Surely there are rules, regulations, against this sort of thing and though this is just a temporary position, he has no desire to get on McGonagall’s bad side. Was there ever a case of it happening, of it working out? Harry makes a mental note to ask Zayn later, but even with his limited knowledge, he can’t think of one. There was Remus Lupin, sure, but Sirius Black was never a teacher so Harry doesn’t think it counts.

He’s so stunned by the thought of not being able to touch Louis, to be with him for the next two months, that he has to leave, he can’t breathe. “I—I’ll be right back,” he mumbles. “Want anything?”

“Pumpkin juice,” Louis says cheerfully.

“You jokin’?” Zayn asks. “It’s freezing out here.”

Louis shrugs helplessly. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Harry’s stomach clenches as he glances at Zayn. “You?”

“Tea, if they’ve got it.”

Harry scoots off, balancing on his toes to get past the row of knees in the staff’s section. By the time he reaches the stairs, he can hardly get away fast enough, taking them two at a time down to where the house elves have set up refreshments. He ladles pumpkin juice into a goblet, but he’s not focusing and he spills some. His hands are shaking and he can feel the hysterical laughter bubbling up his throat. He knew this would be a problem, he _knew_ , but it never really clicked before now and he’s left not knowing how he’s going to make it. He’s never fallen this hard, this fast. Who would have ever known that, in going back to school, he would find the person he’s always been looking for?

He must be down there a long time, because as he’s still fumbling with the goblets that are there for the staff’s use, he hears footsteps coming down the wooden spiral staircase. He looks up in time to see Louis peeking in. “Need a hand?”

“Yeah, actually.”

Louis struts down the stairs, green robes swirling out around him. He brings with him the fresh scent of the rain as he stands beside Harry, reaching for a goblet. “Are you all right?” he asks mildly, not looking at Harry. “You seemed a bit shaken there. Was it Kowalski?”

Harry nods and shrugs at the same time, grateful for the goblet he’s holding, glad he has something to do with his hands. “Yeah. It’s like Greg said. You don’t want to see a kid hurt like that. He was a good sport, though, wasn’t he?”

Louis nods. “He’s a good kid. I’ve got him in my class with the other seventh years, he’s really bright. He’ll be sound as an Irish pound by tomorrow, you’ll see.”

Harry can’t help but smile, even as his chest aches. “That’s something Niall would say.”

“Where do you think I heard it?” Finally, Louis turns to him, holding a goblet of steaming tea. There’s a wedge of lemon in it and Harry can smell the spices, tickling the inside of his nose. “So can I just come out and say something here? It’s a bit conceited, which probably shouldn’t come as a surprise—but is it conceited if _I_ think I’m conceited?” Louis tilts his head for a second before shaking it, frowning. “Sorry, off track. Point is, I want to just speak plainly for a moment. Is that all right?”

Harry nods. “You don’t have to ask,” he says a bit shyly, because it feels very personal to say that, to tell someone they can literally just blurt out whatever they’re feeling, no matter what.

Often times in the beginnings of relationships, it becomes the norm to ask permission for certain things: _Can I say this, do you mind that, can I put my feet here, is it okay if I use this mug_ —and though it’s only been a few months, Harry already thinks it’s quite significant that he feels this way. Louis really doesn’t have to ask, at all. He could plop down on the couch in Harry’s cottage in nothing but his pants, put his feet up on the coffee table and take a drink from Harry’s coffee, and he wouldn’t mind it for a second. (The thought of Louis doing all that makes Harry’s stomach go a bit funny and he has to really try and focus on what Louis is saying, biting the inside of his cheek hard).

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure that we’re okay, you and me. See, I…” Louis sets the goblet down, hands out before him to articulate. “I guess you could say that sometimes, I come on a bit strong. And I just wanted to be sure that last week, with Halloween, that it was okay and not—strange at all. Y’know, hand-holding, the kiss, all that.”

“Yeah, it was—y’know, casual, like you said. No harm, no foul, right?” A warmth creeps into Harry’s chest at the thought of the hand-holding, but it’s interrupted. “But the kiss. You call that a kiss?”

“I call that a kiss in masks, with a someone I barely know.”

_Is that how he sees me?_ Something surges up from the pit of Harry’s stomach and he blinks. He knows he ought not to, what with their situation, but there’s nobody down there, nobody but him and Louis. Taking a step forward, Harry curls his fingers into the chest of Louis’ robes and bends slightly, kissing him fiercely, properly this time. Louis handles his surprise well; his eyes go wide for a split-second before he’s holding on to Harry and kissing him back.

When they part, breathless and grinning, the only thing Harry can think to say is, “ _That’s_ a kiss.”

“Right,” Louis says, aquamarine eyes sparkling. “Thank you _so_ much for explaining that. I’ve been doing it wrong all these years, evidently.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, suddenly shy all over again, blushing. “So. You’re welcome.” He clears his throat.

Louis sighs theatrically and shakes his head. He grabs the goblet off the table, turning and walking back towards the stairs. “Come on, Harold.”

Harry watches him go before reaching for his own goblet and jogging after him.

Outside on the stairs, beneath the open sky, Louis is waiting for him. Harry looks up at him from where he stands, several stairs below him, making him shorter than Louis for the first time ever. “Are we going to talk about all of this, or—”

Lightning cuts across the sky in a jagged streak, thunder following in a resounding boom directly overhead. Harry looks up just as the sky breaks open and it begins to rain.

Louis looks down at him, a mad, happy smile brightening the whole of his face. It’s exactly the smile of someone caught in a rainstorm, fierce and brilliant and free. Clutching the goblet with his hand over it to keep the rain out, he saunters back down two stairs, until he’s standing on the one directly ahead of Harry. He pushes aside a damp curl from Harry’s eyes and bends ever so slightly, kissing Harry on the mouth.

This kiss, however, is different from Harry’s. Where Harry’s was cute determination, him trying to prove himself, Louis’ is a statement of cool confidence and amusement, his free hand tipping Harry’s chin up to meet him. Louis is soft and warm but he knows what he wants, and his tongue slides along Harry’s bottom lip, tasting him. Harry’s lips open in a shuddering breath almost against his will, and Louis is sweet and tangy all at once in his mouth. He tastes like the cherry candies he was sucking, of the cold and the rain.

When Louis releases him, Harry’s legs are trembling and he can’t feel his lips anymore. With no cover to shield them, he and Louis are getting soaked.

“Now _that_ was a kiss, Professor Styles,” Louis says, fingers encircling Harry’s wrist. “Come on, the match will be starting again.”

He stops for a second, Harry bumping into him. “Oh, by the way—that secret I had, at breakfast? McGonagall’s going to name Zayn as the Head of Ravenclaw any day now. Isn’t that amazing? He really deserves it…”

Harry is in a daze for the remainder, unable to feel much but the tingling of his lips and the lingering taste of Louis. Slytherin ends up winning the contest by catching the Snitch, the final score 200-50. At least one quarter of the entire pitch is clapping and shouting, but Harry only hears Louis next to him, his robes billowing in the wind.

* * *

Surrounding magic, there is a historical connotation of ritual. Women loom over cauldrons, poisonous green light revealing their faces; men stand atop mountains chanting into the wind, guarded by circles of stone. Harry understands that idea more and more as November progresses in a frozen dream, his days becoming one ritual after another, all centering in some way or another around Louis.

Every meal, they sit beside one another and talk about their days, about their thoughts, their dreams the night before. Louis points out the new fruits at breakfast that he knows Harry will like and every afternoon in the staffroom, Harry brings up an article he read in the newest _Transfiguration Today_ because Niall has a subscription (for some reason) and he gives them to Harry after his sudden newfound interest in them.

Gemma and Eleanor invite them over for dinner again and Harry brings Louis; in the universe where he lived before he met Louis, it would have been perfectly normal for him to go alone because there was no one _to_ bring with him, except perhaps Niall. Now that he knows Louis exists and he is in Harry’s life, however, there’s no going back.

It feels odd without him now, something he learns when Louis catches the flu from one of his students and has to spend two days in the Hospital Wing. There is an empty chair at the staff table and Harry spends half of it talking to Niall, and the other half glumly staring down into his bowl of porridge. Not even the bananas and blueberries in it can make him feel better. Nothing is the same until Louis returns, looking peaky and too thin. Niall is the most zealous person Harry has ever met when it comes to food, and he makes it his personal mission to see Louis back up to scratch as soon as possible; Harry is there for Louis to grumble to, there to offer sympathetic pats and expressions when Niall gets a little too forceful with his kippers and steak-and-kidney pie, a manic gleam in his blue eyes.

They go to the next Quidditch match two weeks later, Harry wearing an ultramarine set of robes and his Ravenclaw scarf tucked ignominiously out of sight from McGonagall. Zayn wears all black, but when he sees Harry, he grins and takes his hands out of his pockets, showing off his Ravenclaw gloves. They sit next to each other and Louis won’t shut up for nearly the entire match about how good the robes look on Harry, so much so that Zayn has to cast a spell of rain on Louis until he’s finally quiet, but even then, Harry can hear it all, can see it in his eyes when he looks at him, raindrops clinging to strands of his tousled hair. There are no kisses this time, but Louis _does_ ask Harry if he wants to take a walk around the grounds later and he couldn’t be more pleased to say yes.

That becomes their reality. Every other day, when Louis has a free period, they go for walks around the grounds. Harry wears booted heels and they crunch over the frosty grass, the sound as satisfying to him as every one of Louis’ laughs. The colors around them are muted in the coming winter, grays, slate blues, and olive greens taking up every space for his eyes to behold. The sun sets earlier every day, turning the sky to dusky mauve and soft tangerine, and by the time they come back to the castle, everything has already passed into night, starlight touching the tips of Louis’ hair and making his eyes gleam in the dark.

They talk about everything and nothing. They talk about tea versus coffee and what books they’re reading and which of their students are their favorite (because even though they aren’t supposed to, it’s far too easy to pick and choose among their lot). They talk about flowers and birds and the best places to go on holiday. They talk about music (Louis is a die-hard Weird Sisters fan and Harry loves Celestina Warbeck, particularly her Christmas albums), their favorite colors, when their birthdays are, where they want their lives to go, what they like to eat for breakfast and what they think is absolutely horrid (Louis likes his fried foods, but Harry manages to get him to eat fruit for a solid week, which he counts as a victory).

The lads tire of them quickly as the two of them frequently engage in academic discourse at the table, discussing whether or not it’s good to be friends with your students and what types of behavior to encourage. Their ideas are similar, but often they get so excited, they sound as if they’re arguing and the lads just listen and watch, eyes flicking back and forth between them. Harry compares it to being on another planet, one perhaps like Mercury that orbits faster than the Earth, faster than everyone else they know. It’s like their own little world and he isn’t sure how else to include everyone when it seems as though their friends are moving in slow motion.

They try, though. Louis and Zayn have lunch in Louis’ classroom a few times a week, and Harry goes down to Hogsmeade with Niall and Liam several times to buy more supplies for his office at Dervish and Banges. When Louis comes up with the idea for the two of them to go to the Quidditch World Cup the next summer, Harry insists they all go, and it’s decided. He does _try_ , even if Louis seems to be constantly on his mind, all-consuming. He can’t get enough of their time alone, though, feeling it’s that much more precious.

One afternoon when they’re walking down by the lake, they trade _first_ stories—first kisses, first time they were drunk, first time they had sex, first time they cried over someone else. Louis doesn’t ask about sex, but Harry feels so comfortable with him, he offers it up and Louis responds in kind.

“He was my first love.” Louis shakes his head. “Didn’t last, though. Not surprisingly. We were just kids, you know?”

Harry nods. First loves are always complicated. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen.”

_That_ has Harry raising his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised. I was confused for a long time, and I didn’t want to give it away to just anyone.” He shrugs. “We were only together for about a year. It was my longest, most serious relationship.”

Harry doesn’t bother saying he was with the same person since he was fourteen, only just breaking up the year before. He’s always felt he was built for longer relationships, made to last. He just loves people, loves their quirks and every little one of their characteristics, their qualities. He can always see the good in people, the light, and it makes it difficult sometimes to let go.

Still, even he knows when something is over.

“How old were _you_?” Louis asks.

“Sixteen.”

“Wow. Though to be honest, I’m not surprised.”

Harry can’t help smile. “Oh?”

“Yeah, let me guess: Self-confident and assured of who you were, utterly maddening and beautiful. I bet you had all the boys wrapped around your little finger.” Louis grins wickedly. “Or…anywhere else, for that matter.”

Harry blushes rose, clenching his hands in his pockets where Louis can’t see them, his entire body bound by the fierce desire to drag him down among the hedges and kiss him senseless. “You’re mostly right, actually. I was _quite_ the flirt.”

Louis pretends to be shocked, clutching his chest. “Incredible! You? I would never have guessed.” He laughs. “Bet you were snogging every moment you could, lips like that.”

Wide green eyes blink in surprise before narrowing, gleaming playfully. “Excuse me, Professor Tomlinson, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Whatever makes you say that?”

Harry gestures around. It’s nearly dinnertime and as it’s getting colder with each passing day, there’s no one out there except the two of them and Hagrid down the hill at his hut, tending to what’s left of his pumpkin patch after the enormous things were plucked from the vine and brought into the castle for Halloween mischief.

“You and me,” he says, “practically alone out here. People might get the wrong idea.”

“I don’t care what _people_ think.” He doesn’t say it, but Harry hears it anyway. _Only you._ It’s remarkable to him that they are here, where they can think and say those things. Wonder never ceases to fill Harry’s mind on the daily, as a reminder: _He’s the one. And you met him here._ Who would have ever dreamed? He’s going to be indebted to Niall and his job offer for the rest of his wonderful life, the bastard.

Harry tilts his head to the side, working that through. “You mean it? You don’t care what any of our colleagues might say?”

“Ooh, ten points to Harry Styles for ‘colleagues’. And for the record, no, I don’t.”

“What about McGonagall?”

Louis opens his mouth to retort proudly, defiantly, but all at once he deflates. “Oh. Right.”

“Are there rules in place? I don’t even know.”

“Not…specifically, no. It’s sort of implied that we ought to know better.”

“Well, that’s rather trusting, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Louis looks unsure now, though, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “Look, I…I really like you, Harry, I do. I think you’re amazing in just about every regard. But can I be honest?”

“I prefer it, yeah.”

“I don’t know how I got this job. I’m not good at anything except maybe being snarky. I don’t have any talents, any passions, nothing except Transfiguration. In the few years I spent away from this place, I was sacked probably eight times from different jobs because I just didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to do.”

“And now?”

“Now, I have a better idea. But what I’m trying to say is…I don’t know how to be anything else other than this, and I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose this job.”

Harry nods fervently, even though his skin feels too tight for everything he’s feeling to fit inside and his face has gone all hot, his palms sweating. “Yeah, I understand completely.”

“Does that make me sound like a complete wanker?”

“No, no, it doesn’t! I get it, Louis, I promise.”

Louis sighs loudly. “Whatever are we going to do with ourselves?”

Harry pretends to think for a moment before he extends his hand. “We’ll shake hands. Like real, live gentlemen.”

Louis bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach. “That’s—all right, okay.” He takes a breath when he can, running a hand over his effortless mess of hair. He holds out the same hand, and they shake. There’s one second in which Harry can honestly pretend that’s all that will happen before Louis’ fingers are tightening around his and he’s pulling him in.

When he speaks, it’s right against the surface of Harry’s lips, his breath warm, his mouth just ghosting over Harry’s; Harry opens his mouth instinctively, eyes fluttering, half-lidded. “So I guess I can’t do this, then, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” Harry breathes back.

Louis’ free hand skates over his abs and Harry’s breath catches in his chest, his eyes widening as Louis presses his thumb hard to Harry’s hipbone through his robes. “Are you going to stop me?”

Harry’s knees knock together and he hopes Louis notices, wanting him to know just how much he fucking _ruins_ him. He wants to say no. He wants to tear his clothes off and have Louis fuck him into oblivion. But Louis’ words earlier got to him, seeping into his mind, unwanted as a splash from a muddy puddle. He has no choice. For him and Louis both, this is an opportunity neither of them can afford to lose.

“Yes,” Harry finally stutters out, sliding a hand up between them even though it practically kills him to do so. “I am. But only because you’re right. And because it’s November.”

Slowly, Louis does release him, but they continue standing as close as they are. The sun is setting, racing them, daring them to stay outside just a little longer. Harry can see Louis’ breath fog in the air when he frowns and says, “What, you’re celibate every November? Or is it summers as well?”

Harry laughs and the sound is another stammer; he realizes then he’s still shaking, partly from Louis, but also from the cold. “No, I’m l-leaving when the semester is over. So then I’ll b-be a free agent, won’t I?”

“That’s true,” Louis muses, tapping his bottom lip. “I’m perfectly free to pursue any old person who doesn’t work here. You know, I think you should quit right now.”

“Ha-ha. Who would take over my classes?”

“Me.”

“Yeah, right. With your workload?”

“I could do it! Watch.” Louis steps away from him, bends backward and spreads his arms wide, as though he’s preparing to hug the sky. “Stars. Lots and lots of fucking stars. Erm, galaxies and shit. Supernovas. Dwarves. Draco and Cassiopeia and Pleiades.”

“You’re incredible,” Harry says dryly. “Truly. I _am_ going to quit right now, because you’re astonishing. Star-proof, you are _not_.”

“Told you,” Louis says, standing up straight and dropping his arms. He’s breathless and trembling visibly from the cold. “It’s all going to work out.”

“I believe you.” Harry opens his arm without being told, allowing Louis to press in against him and wrap his own arm around Harry’s waist. They shouldn’t, but it’s cold and Harry just wants to be touched, not even sexually (that much, anyway). He just wants to curl his arm around Louis’ slender hips and feel his warmth.

“You know something?”

“Hm?”                       

“My job is not that easy. Astronomy is not that simple.”

There’s a faint pause where Louis, it seems, thinks he might have actually offended Harry. “Of course it isn’t,” he says, voice hard for Harry to read. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right, Lou,” Harry says, squeezing Louis’ hip gently, “but what I’m saying is, you should drop by my classroom sometime. See what I get to do every night.”

They stop. They’re nearly to the doors and it’s time to separate. Dinner will be starting any moment now; their presence is expected.

Louis looks at him seriously. “I’d love to. You should come visit mine, too. Just because.”

It feels like the next step, the next something they ought to do. Maybe they shouldn’t—why encourage what can’t happen until Harry no longer works there?—but he just can’t resist. Hoping for the future with Louis is better than hoping alone.

 Harry can see the starry night sky reflected in Louis’ eyes and he wants to fall in, like a Pensieve to the cosmos of Louis’ memories. “You know something else we should do?”

“What?”

“Start taking our walks inside?” Harry’s teeth are chattering. “I’m f-fucking freezing.”

Louis laughs, breath hitching at the frigid air. “Indoors, it is.” Harry’s reaching for the door when Louis stops him. “And for the record? If I did lose my job over you—or if I do, that is—it would be _so_ worth it.”

Harry looks back and smiles slowly.

It’s so warm inside when they enter the castle that Harry almost cries with relief. Before they go their separate ways, entering the Great Hall with several minutes between them as they often do, Louis reaches out one hand to trace a shape onto Harry’s palm. It’s a star.

Harry can feel the path of Louis’ fingertip all throughout dinner, over and over, as constant as its brothers and sisters shining down from the sky. 

* * *

The days pass in a feverish haze, utterly unlike the deepening cold outside. Harry is even more excited that he’s there, stoked at the prospect of showing his students constellations that can only be seen in winter. They grumble about the cold, but even they can’t stay immune to his infectious enthusiasm and they spend many a frozen class period laughing and chattering happily. He’s just glad that they’re _interested_ again. He doesn’t like to brag, but he thinks what the older professors are calling the ‘Hogwarts Youth Movement’ is one of the best things to happen to the school since Harry Potter.

Harry finds himself even busier than ever trying to do everything he can before Professor Sinistra returns and he no longer has the chance. He introduces Louis to Pleiades, his owl, and they become good friends; better friends, perhaps, than he expected as she sometimes comes in with mail and flies straight to Louis, despite the envelopes being clearly addressed to Harry. “It’s because I give her treats,” Louis says smugly, and Harry rolls his eyes, muttering that he doesn’t need to _buy_ his owl’s affection, thank you very much. He sneaks her some bites of kipper though anyway, and when Louis smiles widely, Harry’s almost sure he knows.

Harry takes the time to visit the Ravenclaw trap door again as well, but the riddles seem more difficult these days; either that, or he’s just out of practice. One has him so stumped for over an hour that a second year finally feels sorry for him and gives him the answer, which he ardently insists that he _knew_ , he was just _testing her_ , because he’s a _professor_.

One evening when he and Louis are taking a walk in the castle, he’s in the mood for some sweets, so they head down to the kitchens, tickling the pear in the painting that leads inside. The house elves are all too happy to give them handfuls of cakes and biscuits; Harry spends some time there talking to them while Louis eats, as some of them he’s known since his own days sneaking down there as a student and he wants to know how they’ve been. The house elves refuse to let them leave without stuffing their pockets and they agree to dump it off on Niall, who is _always_ hungry in the middle of the night (who _else_ taught Harry how to sneak into the kitchens in the first place?). 

He also does some things that Louis later labels as “absolutely foolish” but when Harry recants them at dinner, he grins.

There is, of course, the incident with the Whomping Willow. Harry just wanted to go for a visit because seeing its naked branches made him feel sort of sad, like the tree might be lonely. As it turns out, it has about one emotion that it likes to exhibit and that is utter _violence_ , and Harry takes one of those sad bare branches to the face. It’s only a small cut above one eyebrow, but Louis nearly has a conniption all the same. Before he can begin drafting a 300-page dissertation for McGonagall on why the Willow should be removed from Hogwarts’ grounds, Niall calms him down with a spell. They both visit the Hospital Wing, Louis for his nerves and Harry for the scrape, which Madame Pomfrey fixes in about 0.2 seconds, of course. Niall spends the next few days mimicking Louis’ worry until Louis hexes him with a Jelly-Legs Jinx as he’s going down the stairs while Zayn is on his way up and he topples into him, taking them both out in a horrifically delightful mess. Louis practically pisses himself laughing and Harry has to remind himself, not for the first time, that somehow, they’re _professors_.

The other thing is slightly more dangerous, but only because of Niall’s fat mouth. Louis is there for that one, unfortunately, and Harry gets quite the earful when it’s over.

Harry has a query concerning astronomy and he decides, rather than looking it up in a book that he can’t seem to find, he’ll go to someone who _really_ knows. So one afternoon, he goes for a stroll through the Forbidden Forest, searching for one of the centaur bands that live there in a large community. It takes him over an hour but he stumbles on a foal. Without even speaking to the young boy, he just holds his hands up in a peaceful, submissive gesture; where there’s a foal, there are adults nearby. He’s right, of course; they come striding out of the dark woods on strong, lean legs, their bows raised until one of them speaks.

“Harry Styles.”

She comes into the light and he smiles, slowly lowering his hands. Her name is Fallon and he knew her as a sixth year. In one of his detentions, he was tasked with fetching some simple potion ingredients for Professor Slughorn from the Forbidden Forest (under supervision, of course, care of Hagrid) but Hagrid had gone off to answer a call of nature and Harry had, of course, wandered. Instead of finding the slimy green mushrooms he was looking for, he stumbled upon a breathtakingly beautiful—yet injured—brown centaur with the prettiest dark hair he’d ever seen, her dark skin gleaming in the moonlight. She had cut her leg tripping over a particularly sharp rock, and he’d bound the wound with a strip of fabric ripped from his cloak. He’d visited her once or twice after that, but not since he’d left school as a student. He’d had no idea then that she was the current leader of their colony.

“Hullo, Fallon,” he says. “How are you?”

“Well. And you? You have not visited the forest here in a long time.”

“Oh, not that long, really. I’ve been really good.” He jerks a thumb in the direction he thinks Hogwarts is. “I’m a teacher up there right now. Just temporarily.”

“Like Firenze was,” she says. She and the other centaurs accompanying her lower their heads out of respect for their lost brother, a few years gone now.

Harry nods. “Teaching a similar class, actually. Astronomy. I had a few questions, if you have time to answer them?”

She flicks her tail. “Of course, Harry Styles. What would you like to know?”

She’s just answering the last question for him about the potential relevance of astrology to astronomy, her companions looking bored and impatient, when they’re suddenly alert, reaching for their weapons. Harry freezes instinctively, not sure if they’re about to be attacked or he is, but either way, he’s not prepared. Just then, he hears the crashing of footsteps behind him and the muttered curses of one, maybe two people.

“…dunno, my wand seems to think he’s dead ahead,” a familiar Irish voice says. Harry rolls his eyes immediately.

“Well, could your wand be wrong?” Harry’s heart beats faster, like even it recognizes Louis simply by his voice.

“Those are friends of mine,” Harry says quickly to Fallon, “please, they’re only looking for me.”

Fallon casts a look at her warriors and gestures at them to lower their weapons. They do, reluctantly.

“Mate, are you havin’ a go at my magic? Because I’ll throw down.”

“Niall, please. Don’t start.” There’s a pause before a shout echoes around them. “HARRY!”

Harry winces. Is it possible to be embarrassed by your best friend and sort-of-boyfriend in front of a group of centaurs? Because he’s feeling that way right now, wishing he could just melt into the ground to avoid all of their amused and/or irritated stares.

“HARRRRY,” Louis calls again, drawing it out longer.

“I’m over here,” he calls back. When he turns, he can see them coming through the trees.

“McGonagall’s called a staff meeting,” Louis shouts. “Get out here.”

“Sorry, mate,” Niall yells, louder than anyone Harry has ever heard. Some birds startle into flight from a nearby tree at the sound. “We don’t mean to be a nag, but—”

Harry tenses, wincing. He peeks at the centaurs experimentally, and not a one of them, even Fallon, looks pleased with his friend’s choice of word.

“What did your _friend_ just say?” one of the males beside Fallon asks, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Erm, he didn’t…I mean, of _course_ he didn’t mean it, he’s just…” Harry trails off, wilting under their fierce glares. He throws his hands up helplessly. “I’m just gonna—”

Harry doesn’t finish his sentence; he bolts, leaping over the undergrowth through the trees. He nearly bowls over Louis; before they have a chance to ask, he grabs both of their hands, yanking them towards the outer edges of the forest. “Run,” he says when Niall starts to protest, “just run!” He imagines the whistling of arrows overhead and he _is_ just imagining it, isn’t he? No time to stop and find out.

A record-setting amount of time later, they burst through the trees out onto the grounds of Hogwarts, panting and heaving, no centaurs pursuing them as far as Harry can tell.  

Niall clutches his knee, wheezing. He scowls, looking at Harry. “What was all that about?”

“You—you are so stupid,” Harry says, shaking his head. “ _So_ stupid. The worst.”

Later, when he’s changing from his striped peach robes into a set patterned with hearts, he sees a small tear along one of his sleeves, the same width of an arrowhead. He decides to give the centaurs their space for another year. Or five.

Louis hugs him for practically a solid minute after the staff meeting when everyone has gone from the staffroom and then proceeds to lecture him about going to the Forbidden Forest alone and what was he thinking, looking for the centaurs—did he even imagine what might happen to him—did he even _think_ —and Harry listens, aggravated and bemused all at once because he’s quite sure he _has_ a mother, thank you. When Louis stops for breath, Harry cuts in.

“Erm, can we go back to before? That bit with the hugging?”

Louis manages a smile. “You scared me, you brat.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. C’mere.”

The hug this time is even longer and Harry’s not even sure how he got this lucky, that he can work at Hogwarts and have _this_ , whatever it is, his chin in the crook of Louis’ shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cinnamon hair and his aftershave and that magical smell that always seems to cling to him, a mixture of chalk dust from his classroom, grass like the outdoors—maybe the Quidditch pitch—and the sultry comfort of vanilla. Harry wants to wrap himself up in Louis and sleep on days when the rain comes down on the windows, when the castle is cold and quiet, when making Louis laugh and wrinkle his nose under the covers is the only goal he’ll ever need for the rest of his life.

He imagines that people must be able to see the effect Louis has on him, that his skin _must_ light up where Louis’ touches him, each point of contact carrying a shine for the rest of the day and he can see it now in his mind’s eye as Louis swipes his hands comfortingly across Harry’s broad back, in swaths of stars like the night sky, Louis painting him in shades of dust and dreams. He has his face pressed to Harry’s collarbone, breath warm through Harry’s robes and t-shirt, one hand around his neck, playing with the curls there, winding them around his fingers like they were made just for him. Harry’s willing to bet they were.

“Although,” Louis says quietly a moment later, “that was _quite_ the adventure, wasn’t it? And you—” he laughs softly, “—you looked amazing out there, running like that. Like a baby gazelle, all legs and waving hands. Truly inspirational.”

Harry pokes Louis’ side and he pokes back, pinching Harry’s hip, and then they’re laughing and grabbing at each other, Harry’s heart inflating, feeling like a bubble about to burst in the afternoon sun—

Harry hears shuffling footsteps in the corridor outside, but he doesn’t release Louis, not even when the door opens.

“Hey, Harry, do you—oi.”

“Hello Niall,” Louis says, perfectly calmly and cheerfully, his arms wrapped loosely around Harry’s hips. “What’s up?”

Niall’s eyes drop down to Louis’ arms and then back up, to Harry’s face. His expression never changes. “I was wondering, Harry, d’ya still have that magical cleaner stuff that you had that time? I can’t remember the name, I just know it’s amazin’.” He rolls his eyes. “Some of my students have drawn some great pictures on my chalkboard, really _hilarious_ , and I think there’s a Sticking Spell on them.”

Louis frowns. “What year are they? You’re not really _that_ bad at magic, are you?”

“Ha-ha, Lou. No, I’m making them clean it up. As if I wouldn’t find out who it was. I’ve told them they’re going to scrub every single one of my chalkboards until they’re perfect, or I’m goin’ straight to McGonagall and just _see_ if they don’t find my punishment a vacation after what she gives them.”

Harry smiles, nostalgia hitting him. Once, that would have been Niall in there, scrubbing that chalkboard, Harry right there alongside him. “Yeah, it’s in my office, in the right desk drawer.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Louis laughs. “I love it when you get feisty, Niall, your accent is incredible.”

Niall grins. “Really? Harry’s always goin’ on about how annoying it is.”

“Trust me,” Harry says, looking down at Louis. “Go anywhere with him for more than an hour or two. He’ll talk the entire time and then you’ll understand.”

Niall whips out his wand and flicks it in Harry’s direction, causing his eyes to water enormously and uncontrollably. Niall practically skips out the door then as Harry releases Louis and mumbles curses under his breath, reaching up with his sleeves to stem the flow of water dribbling down his cheeks.

“That—prat—” Harry manages, blinking so much his eyelashes are flicking droplets up into his hair. “He always gets me in front of—well, in front of _people_.”

“No, does he?” Louis watches, bemused and endeared, with his cheek practically in his hand, before he feels bad and pulls his own wand out of the pocket in his robe. “Here, move your hands, love. _Finite._ There.”

Harry wipes the rest of the water off his face, shaking his head. “Now my eyes are all red, aren’t they?”

“Only a little.”

“ _Ugh._ He did that once when I was on a date, the troll.”

“Hmm, would we call him that? He’s more of a…” Louis trails off, tapping his chin.

“Grindylow,” Harry says, sniffling. “A terrible one. I want to stick his head in a jar.”

“That could be arranged,” Louis says and Harry laughs, wiping the last of the moisture from his eyelashes.

“So, I know it’s not as interesting as all that today,” Louis drawls, twirling his wand between his fingers. Harry knows it’s dogwood, he heard Louis mention it once, but he doesn’t know what’s inside. He’s willing to bet his dinner on dragon heart string, though. It’s always been the best at Transfiguration and other difficult magic.

“But,” Louis is saying, “do you want to go for a walk tonight? Seriously lacking in danger, but I think I can make up for that.”

“Oh?”

Louis nods, grinning. “Well of course, it’s me, isn’t it? So what do you say? I promise this time, no Peeves.”

The last time they’d gone for a walk, Peeves had floated behind them, following them around the entire time, pretending to play an instrument but really just blowing raspberries loudly. They’d been laughing through practically all of it, but it was a bit wearying and hard to talk like that after a while.

Harry nods. “All right. Where should I meet you, then?”

“Third floor. I’m thinking we can make our way through the entire castle if we try hard enough.”

“Does _anyone_ know the entire castle?”

“McGonagall, maybe.” Louis waits a beat. “And Peeves.” He brings his hands up to his mouth, pretending to play a trumpet, and Harry dissolves into laughter again.

Neville comes into the staffroom then, helpless at the sight of the two of them laughing hysterically, unable to do anything but stare.

* * *

That night, Harry meets Louis on the third floor and Louis immediately takes him by the arm. They chat about Liam for a bit and how he’s a bit sore about losing all those galleons to Louis after the latest Gryffindor loss and how Niall isn’t making it any better, as they had lost to Hufflepuff. There had been so many “yellow with envy” jokes (that didn’t even make _sense_ , the idiot) that Zayn had to stop Liam from hexing him at dinner, talking him down as calmly as possible. Louis insists that Liam will be over it soon enough, easing Harry’s faint worry about the state of their friendships. “This happens every year, trust me,” Louis says, patting his arm, “don’t you worry. Liam’ll come around.”

But how can Harry not worry? These are his friends now, his _mates_ , his brothers-in-arms, if chalk and wands can really be considered arms. They’re his family now, the people he reaches for in the dark, the shelter he seeks in the storm, and he doesn’t like to see them snapping at each other when days before, they were just laughing at the staff table, the whole lot of them, so loudly that McGongall sent them one of her _looks_ and they spent the rest of the meal shooting each other glances, food hastily stuffed into mouths to hide away more of those hysterics.

As if he can tell it’s going to weigh on Harry’s mind, Louis changes the subject. “Want to know something I keep thinking about?”

“Hm?”

“We met once.”

Harry blinks, completely blindsided and thoroughly distracted, turning to look at Louis. “What?”

“We met once. You and I. Not formally or anything, we never introduced ourselves. But we spoke. I made you laugh.”

Harry shakes his head, curls bouncing with the ferocity of it. “No, no _way_. I would’ve remembered for sure. You were the—”

“—devastatingly handsome Slytherin captain?”

“Well. Yeah, actually.” Harry blushes under Louis’ revealing gaze, even as he shakes his head. “Louis, not even Niall could manage to get me to most matches before I found out you were the captain of Slytherin, all right? So really, trust me when I say, I would have remembered.”

“Except I hadn’t quite honed my craft yet, because you clearly _don’t_ remember.” Louis raps the side of Harry’s head with his knuckles gently, fondly. “I was in my seventh year and it was near the end of it so I was just as lazy as I could possibly be. I think I dodged class one less than the exact number of times required to give me an automatic Troll score on all my N.E.W.T.s. or something.” Louis laughs, shaking his head.

“Anyway, I remember there were loads of people outside because it was so lovely. Spring, you know. There were people everywhere, playing Exploding Snap by the lake, trying to do their homework but utterly failing. I was one of them. I had been trying to write nearly two-feet of parchment for the past few hours and I was losing my mind, so I decided to go for a walk. All my mates were down by the lake, so I thought I’d head down there.” Louis licks his lips. “On my way there, I saw a boy sitting against a tree. He was scribbling furiously in a book, his head bent towards the pages. And he was wearing flowers in his hair.”

Harry realizes then that they’ve stopped walking in the middle of a corridor. His cheeks are hot and his heart is going so fast, he’s not even sure he’ll be able to hear Louis’ next bit of words. Because he knows that boy. _I was that boy. I_ am _that boy._

He remembers that day, clear as a bell and just as bright. He was writing in one of his old journals. Probably about Louis, now that he thinks about it. And then…

“You—you were the one Niall ran into!”

Louis nods, laughing. “Yeah. Say what you want about him, he’s a solid kid, that one. Nearly broke my neck. He wasn’t looking where he was going—”

“—he was running over to me because he was taking his O.W.L.s and needed my help with Herbology and you—”

“—fell to your feet. Yeah.”

Harry smiles. “And you said…Oh god, what did you say?”

Louis’ face lights up, like he was just waiting for him to ask. “ _‘Well, I’ve had more graceful tumbles with boys, but not any that look like you.’_ ”

Harry hoots with laughter in the empty corridor. “Merlin’s beard, that was _you_.”

“Yeah. And you laughed.” The look on Louis’ face is pure gold, shining in the dark. “You looked at me for a moment, just like right now, and then you laughed.” He chuckles. “And Niall nearly pissed himself apologizing. Kept going on about how much he liked watching me play Quidditch…”

Harry nods, but he can’t listen, not anymore, not when a curious rushing is filling his ears. Something has a hold on him, a fierce grip at the base of his spine, and he’s got shivers, every hair on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end. He and Louis met. They met and Louis said something utterly adorable and flirty, and Harry laughed and he had _flowers_ in his hair. He remembers it so clearly, remembers how he glowed the entire rest of the day, the entire rest of the _week_ , because that cute Slytherin Chaser had said that to his face and looked so perfect and kissable in the sunlight, dappled by the leaves of the tree above them, his brown hair falling into his eyes and his smile taking up the whole of his face, directed at Harry.

_Maybe we—this—was always meant to happen._ The mere thought of Fate intervening in some way sends another shiver racing down Harry’s back, but it’s all he can think of now, that Niall was _meant_ to tell him about this job, that he was meant to come back to the place where he and Louis met for the first time, so that they could do it properly this time around. He knows it isn’t possible and yet he _doesn’t_ know that, not for sure anymore, because right now, all he feels is that it is overwhelmingly, absolutely possible because it’s happened to him, to them.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Louis has walked ahead a bit and turned, waiting for Harry to catch up.

“Yeah, I’m—yeah, I’m good.” He smiles and jogs to reach Louis, the two of them resuming their walk.

They head for the Trophy Room, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not. Harry isn’t paying much attention, if he’s being honest; he can’t stop going over the incredulity of realizing that he and Louis might just be inexorably bound for each other after all.

The Trophy Room is dark and quiet, its high ceilings disappearing from view, smelling faintly of polish and the thick scent of metal. Shields and cups loom down from inside glass cases and on shelves, figurines atop towers of gold, silver, and brass watching them as they stroll past with their glittering eyes, Louis making little comments every now and again. He has nearly an entire glass case to himself and he winces at the photo that’s inside. Harry turns his attention to that for a moment, laughing as the younger-Louis captured inside waves at him exuberantly. He flips his hair out of his eyes, face crinkled with delirious joy as he blows Harry kisses. Harry blows one back, his heart still beating as quickly as ever.

“You were incredible,” Harry says, standing back to survey the absurd amount of trophies. “Did you ever think about going pro?”

Louis nods and shrugs at the same time. “Flirted with the idea, sure. I was scouted by Caerphilly and Portree, among others, but I dunno. I didn’t like the idea of having to be so far from my family.”

“What about now?”

“Now I can see my sisters just about every day, I can write to Mum, have a chat in a fireplace. Quidditch would’ve kept me too busy, I think. Besides, I wouldn’t have met you, would I?” Louis smiles. “Again.”

Harry’s heart does a somersault in his chest. To hide the ridiculous, cheesy smile on his face, he looks at the other trophies. He whistles, impressed. “Is there anything you _didn’t_ get?”

“Prefect and Head Boy. McGonagall would’ve killed me first; I was in her office far too often to ever be some sort of disciplinary figure.”

Harry blushes, glancing back at Louis. “I was a prefect.”

“ _Were_ you? I had no idea. Not Head Boy, though?”

He shakes his head, curls bouncing. “No, by then, Niall and I had really gotten into the swing of pranks. McGonagall saw me at least once a month. They gave it to Randall Perkins instead.”

“Sounds like the name of someone _made_ for Head Boy,” Louis says. “Any pranks I would have heard about?”

“Hm, not sure, since you were gone by then. We did try to recreate this one.” Quickly, Harry breaks down the chandelier trick, which has Louis gasping by the time he’s done. Harry isn’t sure why, it didn’t seem _that_ funny, but then he’s saying, “My mates and I _invented_ that one” and Harry can hardly believe what he’s hearing.

“You what? You? You and your friends—”

Louis nods. “Yes, everyone was so _furious_ , but it was _wonderful_.”

“Louis, that prank is _legendary_. Some people thought it was even better than the Weasley twins and their swamp.”

“No. Really?” Louis put a hand over his chest. “I’m touched. Truly. We were just being idiots. We’d snuck in some firewhisky and lost our heads on it.”

Fate is whispering in Harry’s ear again, tickling the back of his neck as he says, barely able to hear himself over the rushing sound of waves, “Not a bad idea now, with how cold it is outside.”

“Don’t tempt me, Styles,” Louis says, reaching out and tapping Harry’s nose. He checks his pocketwatch, the one that’s scuffed silver with the second hand that sometimes needs to be shaken to work properly. “It is getting a bit late. Maybe we should get out of here? We wouldn’t want to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, even if he can’t exactly do much with that cane nowadays…”

Louis walks him all the way up to his tower where the Bloody Baron is banging away on the pipes. Louis takes a moment to placate him and when the tower is silent again, he strolls back over to Harry with his hands in his pockets.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry says. He desperately wants to know what Louis thinks about Fate. He doesn’t know if he can stand to go to sleep not knowing. The word _casual_ is haunting his every waking thought, permeating his dreams.

“Hmm.” Louis stops right alongside Harry, trailing several fingers over his wrist. It’s like he knows, like he isn’t quite ready for that yet, like it’s all too heavy for tonight. “Ask me a couple days from now. I’ll find you.” 

“But—”

Louis touches his hand to Harry’s lips, stopping him. He lifts himself on his tiptoes and presses his mouth softly to Harry’s, quick and quiet and warm and lovely. He tugs playfully on one of Harry’s curls before stepping back.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to do that,” Harry whispers. He’s not sure why but it feels right to whisper just then.

“I’m not. But you make it so difficult to keep my hands to myself.” He pats Harry’s arm and then he’s trailing away with a “Sweet dreams, Haz,” over his shoulder.

Harry stays awake nearly all night, searching for answers in the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Star-proof, you are not." - a play on a line from Jeanette Winterson's "Art and Lies in Three Passages from Sappho: II"


	3. stars pt. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i'm terrible at sex scenes, i'm so sorry, but here's your official warning for verrrry mild adult content ;~;
> 
> also, just a quick reminder: i obviously don't know anyone affiliated with the boys' families, this is a work of pure fiction

December dances in with a flurry of snow and all anyone can talk about is the upcoming Yule Ball. All across Hogwarts, it’s practically the only subject on people’s minds. McGonagall is so busy that she’s hardly seen anywhere other than the Great Hall at meals, and even then she’s dictating notes to a Quik-Quotes Quill, scowling fiercely when it paraphrases for her instead of putting down precisely what she wants.

Harry can’t even fault his students who lose their focus in the middle of plotting their star charts, the ones he can hear whispering and giggling over who’s going to ask who and what they ought to do with their hair, not when he too has to be brought back to reality in the middle of daydreams of Louis by a cheeky, “Professor, are you _listening_?”

It’s not just the students who are quivering with excitement, moving from class to class in enthusiastic droves and packs, chattering happily as the days creep forward. Their frenzy is contagious, spreading through the ranks of the faculty as well; on more than one occasion, Harry walks into the staffroom to see a handful of teachers huddled together, looking at dress robe ads in the Daily Prophet. It makes him smile.

One afternoon, as Harry is making his way through what seems to be the _entire_ student body, mumbling “excuse me—oh! Sorry, Williams, didn’t see you there—excuse me, coming through”, he feels a hand at his hip, a warm pressure gently squeezing.

He jumps, looking around; Louis is standing beside him, smiling. “Afternoon, Professor,” he says, sliding a glance at some of the students around them. “Can I have a word?”

“’Course. Your office? It’s closer.”

Louis nods and the two of them shuffle off towards the corridor, away from the Great Hall and the wild crowds thronging towards the stairs, their voices bouncing off the stone walls, echoing up to the ceiling.

Louis takes his hand as soon as they’re out of sight, guiding Harry into the alcove outside of his classroom. Harry follows him, the two of them standing beside a suit of armor, pressed chest to chest. If anyone were to walk by, there’s no doubt they’d be thinking that there was something else going on, regardless of how innocently Louis meant the gesture at first.

He holds up a hand flat against the wall besides Harry’s head, smirking. _Well, sort of innocently._ “I was wondering if you’re busy this afternoon. I have one last class before dinner, and I thought you might want to stop by, see what it’s like to be on the other side of Transfiguration. You know, like we talked about?”

Harry looks out quickly to make sure no one’s coming. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t be a distraction?”

“Well, see, I thought about that and I found a way that I can keep looking at you and teach at the same time. It’s ingenious really, if I do say so myself. Not even Zayn could come up with something better.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“And ruin the surprise? Absolutely not.” He reaches over, touching the ends of the silver silk scarf that Harry has tied to keep his hair back from his face. “This looks really good on you. I especially like the polka dots as well,” Louis says, nodding at the robes Harry is wearing. This is the closest he’ll ever get to the plain black that most of the student body and other faculty members wear; he just doesn’t see the point. Why not use clothes to show off your personality, even if you have a uniform?

“Thanks, Lou.” Harry bows his head so their cheeks touch. He loves the feeling of simply breathing next to Louis, their bodies loving in congress with one another, rhythmic systems of movement and life operating joyously in tandem.

He knows he shouldn’t, that anyone could come down the corridor and see them, but the close proximity of their bodies is intoxicating, going straight to Harry’s head in a mad, dizzying rush. He leans down and kisses Louis softly on the cheek, letting his lips linger, brushing over Louis’ skin, his eyelashes fluttering closed.

Louis touches the side of Harry’s neck lightly, as if he’s afraid that doing so might cause him to disappear, as though Harry is Eurydice and he is Orpheus, leading him out of the Underworld with the sweet sounds of his music. It makes sense; Harry would follow him anywhere.

“Meet me here at half past three,” Louis says quietly, tugging gently on Harry’s scarf. “Unless you have somewhere else to be? You could stay, if you wanted. I’m sure I could think up _something_ for us to do.”

Harry sighs. The temptation is there and the struggle is very much alive and real, but eventually, he shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says, wanting to groan with the frustration he feels. “I’ve got so many papers to grade. My fault, I guess, for assigning them, but with mid-terms coming up—”

Louis nods. “I completely understand. That’s what we’re doing today, a review. I think they’re prepared, but you never know, so we’ll go over it again.” Louis smiles, playing with some of Harry’s curls. “So I’ll see you later then?”

“’Course. On the dot.” 

 _Three more weeks_ , Harry tells himself as he heads to the staffroom. _Just three more weeks and we can really be together._

He nearly falls asleep in the staffroom going over his second years’ papers on Saturn’s rings. It’s not that he doesn’t love it, he does (Saturn is actually one of his favorite planets), but this month is a whirlwind. The Yule Ball preparations are going on all over the place and his students are planning for that, as well as their trips home for Christmas vacation, and it’s all Harry can do to keep his head above it all. Luckily, the lads are there for him.

As if summoned by Harry’s thoughts, Zayn bursts into the staffroom then, his black robes sweeping out behind him dramatically. He looks slightly agitated, not altogether himself, and when he plops down beside Harry, he doesn’t say a word. Harry stares at him with his eyebrows raised, crunching one of the almonds he’d been eating as an afternoon snack. When Zayn remains quiet, Harry goes back to grading.

He’s halfway through his pile when Zayn sighs and slumps in his chair, looking over at Harry. “Heya, Harry.”

Harry smiles at him, offering him his pouch of almonds. Zayn takes a couple, popping them in his mouth. “You all right?” Harry asks, setting down his quill. “Need me to talk to anyone?”

Zayn looks like he might say someone’s name, but he just shakes his head instead. Harry has an inkling he knows what it’s about and it just might include his fool of a best friend, Niall, who puts his foot in his mouth more often than a cannibal would. Harry forgets about the rest of his papers, offering to go on a walk with Zayn instead; they take one of the carriages down to Hogsmeade to the little bakery there and Harry lets him talk about everything, whether it’s got anything to do with the true heart of the problem or not.

“And McGonagall wants to name me Head of Ravenclaw at the ball,” Zayn says, hunching his shoulders. “But I’m not sure about it, y’know? I mean, yeah, it’d be amazing to be the head of my old House, but this is my first semester as like, a proper teacher and all that. What if I’m bad at it?”

Harry makes a face over his scone and coffee. “Impossible. Seriously. You’re one of the best teachers I’ve ever seen. I wish you’d been around when I was a kid here!”

Zayn still seems hesitant. “Yeah?”

“Of course! You’re brilliant. You heard Louis last month. You make kids actually _want_ to learn. You know how amazing that is? Especially with your subject?” Zayn laughs softly and Harry smiles, glad to see he’s picked himself up a bit. “Really, Zayn, I think it’s a great opportunity. Nobody deserves it more than you.”

“Thanks, Harry,” he says, grinning fully now. “That’s really nice of you. Seriously.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

When they finish their pastries and drinks, they head back to the castle, Zayn to teach his next class and Harry to head to Louis’. He didn’t finish grading his papers, but he doesn’t give a damn; it was worth it to be able to spend an hour or so with a friend.

They pass Liam on the way through the Entrance Hall. “Oi, I’ve been looking for you!” he says, waving them over. He’s holding a jar of paint. “We need more people to help out with the Yule Ball decorations. Just some little stuff in the coming weeks. You in?”

Zayn’s eyes light up as he looks down at the paint in Liam’s hands. “Yeah, that sounds great, I’d love to. Harry?”

Harry shrugs apologetically. “I’d love to help, but I’m not sure. I’ve got a fair bit of work on my hands. Plus, I’m only here until the Christmas break.”

They both nod. “Right,” Liam says, “you’ll be leaving, won’t you?”

Harry repeats the sentence in his head all the way to his office to drop off his things, his stomach clenching. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to leave, but what else is he supposed to do? It’s not like Hogwarts has openings on the regular; most, if not all, of the staff are career men and women whose life is teaching there. And even if he stops teaching and things work out with Louis, the fact remains that Louis _is_ one of the teachers there—and that leaves Harry where? Living alone for the half the year that he’s in Scotland? Living _separately_? Harry doesn’t think he’d be able to stand it.

An uncommon weight settles over him all at once, a type of melancholy that he didn’t know was possible to feel. It’s like he’s missing someone, missing Louis, even though he’s just there in the same space, only moments away. Even knowing that he sleeps on the seventh floor and Louis is on the first floor night after night was never this lonely; Harry can feel an ache going down through the very deepest parts of him, permeating his heart with a sadness he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He still has almost an hour until he’s supposed to meet Louis, so he does the only thing he can think to do. He grabs a handful of Floo Powder from the ballerina music box he brought with him from home and throws it into the fire. “Gemma Styles, sitting room, cottage on the hill, Hogsmeade village.” He closes his eyes as the ashes rush around his face, the wind whistling through his curls.

“Harry?”

He opens his eyes. Gemma is sitting at her desk in the living room, typing away madly on an old-fashioned typewriter he got her for her birthday last year.

"Hi, Gem."

She frowns, looking concerned. “What’s the matter? You sound…off.”

“I _am_ ,” he says miserably. It’s like maybe in cheering up Zayn, he took on some of that unhappiness himself, like it’s all winter inside of him now, no sun. He recounts everything to do with Louis, telling her all about the moment they ran into each other, to the distance they have to keep from one another and all these crushing doubts he suddenly has. The future has never seemed so uncertain and it’s twisting him up inside.

“All right, first off, how _weird_ that you two met before. That’s just odd.” Gemma shakes her head, shuddering theatrically. “Second, look, you’ve got to come clean with him. Getting into all this without being clear about what _you_ want out of your life and from your future was a silly mistake. You owe it to him, but mostly you owe it to yourself to be honest with him now. Tell him about all your marriage-and-baby dreams.”

“But what if he—”

“Love is about taking risks, H. They’ve got to be done, otherwise we don’t grow and we miss out on stuff.” She gestures to herself. “Look at me! I waited _months_ to introduce you to El and look where it got us. Nowhere. You and Mum and Robin could’ve been having a lovely time if it wasn’t for stupid me.” She shrugs. “It’s scary, I know, but it’s something you’ve got to do. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Harry knows she’s right, the way she always is in that older-sister, wonderful-person way. He spends the next few minutes asking how she is and how her next piece is going and if Eleanor is coming over for Christmas. She says yes to that last bit, and they chat about Mum and Robin, and the local gossip of Hogsmeade before she admits she _really_ does need to finish this next bit of her article and bids him goodbye by sticking a biscuit in his mouth and ruffling his hair. He feels loads better, but he knows he won’t feel perfect until he hunts down the one person he can’t seem to forget.

Harry Styles is nostalgic nearly to a fault. As such, he travels with all his old notebooks and journals, every scrap of his young adult life documented over a period of years. The only problem is, they’re not organized nor are they labeled, and he spends the next forty-five minutes poring through them in his office, hunting down the one from that year, looking for the May entry where Harry can find Louis’ name, scrawled in his messy handwriting.

When he finally finds it, he can’t help laughing. He drew a chain of daisies across the top of the page in shaky ink, the date sometime in the middle of May. _Dear Diary_ , it says, going on to mention some of the things going on at the time, like how his Divination class was going and what homework there was in Muggle Studies and if that cute boy from Gryffindor would _ever_ notice him when—

_You won’t believe what just happened!!!! Louis Tomlinson I REPEAT LOUIS TOMLINSON just got crashed into by niall that git and he NEARLY FELL ON ME and he looked up at me and smiled and he said he’s had more graceful tumbles with boys but none that look like me. ME. HARRY STYLES OF RAVENCLAW HOUSE FROM HOLMES CHAPEL ENGLAND. Niall must’ve hit him so hard he went blind because wowwwww like what??? Ha unbelievable I’m in LOVE_

_Wonder if a bloke like him would ever look at me twice again? I can dream!!_

_x._

Harry laughs to himself, clutching the journal to his chest, sitting among a stack of them that he’s yanked down from the bookshelf in his office. If he tries, he can still feel the sun on his face and smell the flowers tangled in his curls. He was so young then, such a pretty little fool, and now…Well, he’s much the same, to be honest, but he knows what he wants now—and he’s utterly charmed to find that it’s never changed.

The fear lessens, going out of him somewhat, replaced with a determination. Fate didn’t bring them back like this just for him to lose heart now. It doesn’t matter how things turn out in the future. They’ll make it work because they’re meant to. It’s…well, he feels like a prat for even thinking so, but it’s _destiny_ , innit? Has to be, otherwise they wouldn’t be where they are.

Seizing the notebook, Harry leaps to his feet. He practically runs the entire way down to the first floor again, but he gets caught by a changing staircase _of course_ , sending him to a landing that goes back up to the third floor instead. He gets distracted there when he catches the eye of a woman in a painting of three witches around a cauldron, their eyes bound with blindfolds, one of them holding a single eyeball to share between them. She mentions his hair and the scarf he’s bound it back with, and they talk fabric and whether or not his curls have magical properties for a good ten minutes before he can tear himself away. He bets Louis would say he has magical hair, but then, Louis would probably say everything about him is magical. Harry smiles to himself when he finally makes his way back to the first floor corridor. He’d say the same thing about Louis.

Harry arrives just several minutes before class is due to start, breathing hard and waving the journal about like he’s going to commit murder with it. When Louis opens his classroom door to Harry’s insistent knocking, he flashes him a look of alarm.

“Merlin’s beard, Harry, did you run all the way here?”

“I’ve got something to show you,” Harry says, stepping inside when Louis opens the door wider for him. Louis takes his hand and guides him through the classroom, to the door in the opposite wall.

Harry has never actually seen Louis’ office before. He’s walked him to the door and been inside his classroom once or twice, but this is the first time he’s setting foot beyond the chalkboards and desks, and he can’t help but look around with a sense of wonder as they pass through to the room where Louis takes meetings with his students.

It’s a mess. His desk is disorganized, to say the least, with rolls of parchment everywhere, and books are stacked haphazardly on his numerous shelves. Sitting on his desk, among the flurry of parchment, some of which Harry catches a glimpse of—something to do with turning rats into goblets and the differences between Vanishment and Conjuration—are knickknacks, including a glass paperweight with a tiny Quidditch player zooming around inside; a picture frame of a large house with a gaggle of girls running through the grass in front of it, long hair streaming behind them as they laugh, taking no notice of Harry; and a brass Sneakoscope that looks to Harry as though it’s seen better days.

“What’s going on? You look _wild_ ,” Louis says, turning in time for Harry to hand him the journal.

Louis looks down at the book in his hand and then back up at Harry, quirking an eyebrow. “This better not have a piece of your soul in it.”

“It doesn’t. Sort of.” When Louis looks dubious, Harry just laughs, pointing at it. “The dog-eared page.”

Louis opens the book, flipping through the creamy, ink-splattered pages. When he gets to the page Harry’s referring to, his brow furrows in concentration, his lips shaping the words soundlessly. When he gets to the part where Harry mentioned him, he stops for a second, glancing up at Harry, before continuing on. His lips curve into a smile when he finishes.

He looks up at Harry, holding the journal out before him. “What’s all this?”

“A week or so ago, I wanted to ask you something. You told me to wait. Well, I waited.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Lou, do you…” 

He licks his lips. Suddenly it’s all very nerve-wracking, to ask him these existential questions that have been plaguing him for several days, especially in the light of these dagger-to-the-heart feelings where he has to imagine his days without Louis. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous. It’s Louis; he can ask him anything, say anything. Maybe it’s because he’s afraid of how Louis will answer? Maybe because he’s being silly? Maybe it’s because, after the last two months, he’s terrified he might lose Louis in a way that he’s never feared before?

He takes a deep breath. “Do you believe in fate?”

Louis doesn’t even hesitate, just blinks, long lashes brushing his cheeks. “I do.”

Something about his tone touches at the base of Harry’s spine, a hesitant hand, light as a feather and just as soft. “You do?”

“I do,” he says simply. “I have to.” He looks up into Harry’s eyes, so serious that Harry almost takes a step back. “I have to because you’re here with me right now.”

Harry forgets how to breathe, all the air in his lungs evaporating, critical systems in his body shutting down to make room for Louis and the impossible feelings surrounding this darling pixie that are filling every inch of available space in Harry’s being.

“Is that stupid to say?” Harry shakes his head fervently and Louis goes on. “I just…” He holds up the journal higher, shaking it slightly. “I never forgot that day on the grass, with you sitting at the base of that tree. You looked like someone from a storybook I had as a child. You looked like _magic._ ” Louis shrugs. “And then I passed my N.E.W.T.s and graduated and I honestly never thought I would see you again. But I always remembered.”

The words practically stick in Harry’s throat, but he gets them out anyway, his voice hoarse. “And now?”

“Now? Now I don’t know what to do. You’re here and you’re _beautiful_ , more than I thought possible, and I’m…” Louis laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been casual forever, with everyone. It just felt—safer that way, I dunno. I thought I was doing what was right, I didn’t want to pressure you or make you feel as though you had to since you’re a fair bit younger than me, so I just thought, casual, y’know? It would suit everyone better, but it was harder and harder for me to control myself around you. It still is.”

He takes a deep breath and Harry is both flattered and vaguely alarmed to hear that it’s shaky. “You have no idea, Haz, what I’ve been through. I lay awake almost all night, thinking of you. I…it’s all you, all the time.”

“ _I_ have no idea? Me, really?” Harry almost laughs aloud. “Louis, I—I _hate_ casual. I’ve never wanted to be casual!”

Louis frowns. “What?”

“I only said that because I didn’t want to spook you away. I thought—I dunno, you put on this face sometimes and I thought maybe me being ready to commit would make you back off, and I didn’t want that, more than anything.”

Louis blinks, eyes wide. “This whole time, you’ve wanted to—to be with me?”

Harry does laugh this time. “Yes! I went backpacking so I could explore, sure, but I also wanted to have experiences, to sort of get it all out of my system before finding my—” Harry breaks off, his breath catching in his throat.

“—your soulmate,” Louis finishes, face gone a bit pale as though he’s seen a ghost. “You’re looking for your soulmate.” He couldn’t be more right if he plucked the words out of Harry’s mouth himself.

Harry nods.

 “Even as young as you are?”

Harry nods again. There are few things in this world he’s been more certain of. “And it’s you,” he says, surprised that his voice doesn’t break, even though it feels like no part of him is steady, not anymore. “You’re the only one that I want. Since the first moment I met you, I think I knew. Even if I didn’t remember at first, I think a part of me still _knew_. How insane is that?”

Louis grins. “Very. But it fits, doesn’t it? All of this has been insane. But ever since I saw you again—”

“You’re it,” Harry blurts out. “You’re the one.”

“So then what the hell are we _doing_?”

Harry spreads his arms wide and shouts, laughing, “I don’t know!”

Harry’s tired of not knowing. He’s tired of guessing, tired of being afraid of these huge feelings, tired of being casual. He’s done with it. He wants all of it, all of Louis and everything that entails, right now, for the rest of his life until they burn out into the cosmos of forever. He doesn’t care how silly it is. Promises have been made on less.

Harry grins, loving the way that Louis makes him feel so mischievous, like they’re in their own little world together where they make the rules. Louis makes him feel like he’s always got a scheme that they’re in on, just the two of them, like this is all a great heist and they’re about to pull it off.

 _And we are_.

“Wanna know a secret?”

Louis nods eagerly, even though it’s completely out of the blue.

He doesn’t want to say the words, not just yet. He’s not sure what would happen if he says them now. It’s a beautiful, magical, romantic moment and Harry’s heart could _burst_ , he’s so happy, but there is a still a whisper, a tugging that says _Wait. Not just yet. Everything else just now is enough._ He’s never known his heart to be wrong, not about what he wants out of life, not about what he’s passionate about, and not about Louis. So he listens. He takes that advice. And he does something that he hopes conveys the feeling anyway, something that will fill in the blanks where his words fail.

He edges closer to Louis, over the distance between them. With one large hand, he cups Louis’ jaw. He tilts Louis’ face up, watches, thrilled, as Louis’ eyelashes flutter closed, lips parting in expectant desire. He traces their outline with his thumb, both captivated by the way Louis wants him and still stunned by it, because he’s just Harry, just Harry with the wild curls and the big eyes and the head full of stardust and dreams of a love that people don’t have time for anymore. And Louis—well, he’s _everything._

Harry cups his cheeks with both hands, amazed that he even gets to touch this glorious person before him, and kisses him, kisses him hard, kisses him fully, _properly_ as Louis would say, nearly bending him backwards, the meeting of their lips spreading throughout their entire bodies. Harry is starving, desperate for air, and Louis is a breath of life that he drinks in eagerly, needing him to survive. He kisses him once for each word. _I_ and _love_ and _you_.

When they do surface, Harry’s lips are tingling pleasantly, his entire head buzzing. From outside the office door, Harry can hear the clamor of voices; the students are arriving. 

Louis’ eyes are closed as he licks his lips. “Y’know,” he drawls, eyes barely opening, like the slitted eyes of a sleepy, contented cat. “I’m not entirely sure I heard that secret. Tell me again?”

This time they kiss on the tail-end of Harry’s laughter and Louis catches it on his lips. 

They only have a few moments together, though, and it’s just not enough. Still, as much as Harry wants to drag Louis down onto his desk, making even _more_ of a mess of it, he knows that they have duties, responsibilities, and so he manages to force his hands to open and release Louis.

Reluctantly, Louis lets go of him as well and they sort each other out, smoothing collars and robes, brushing stray wild curls and sections of hair, each touch of their hands and twirl of Louis’ fingers over his hair sending electricity shooting through him, little sparks of magic at every meeting of their beings.

“All right, Harold,” Louis says, grinning wryly, “are you prepared to learn about my craft today?”

“ _Ooh_ , craft, is it?”

Louis points a stern finger at him. “You’d better watch that tone, young man. I might have to punish you.”

Harry’s insides melt into warm pudding. “Promise?” he asks, voice rough.

A wicked grin flits across Louis’ face like a falling star. “Only if you’re a good boy.” He crosses the room, small fingers closing around Harry’s wrist. “C’mon, let’s go! I promised my students a very informative class today thanks to you and I won’t have us letting them down, Fate or not.”

Louis pulls him away towards the classroom door where there are childish voices growing louder within, the students filing in to take their seats. Harry’s stomach turns nervously for half a moment before Louis is pushing him through the door and introducing him to the class utterly needlessly as they are some of Harry’s own flock. _Third years_ , he thinks, scanning their faces. _Lovely bunch_.

“Students, this is Professor Styles, our supply teacher for Astronomy; you ought to know him. He’s joining us today on a whim to observe so I expect you to be on your absolute _worst_ behavior so he never sits in again and we can get back to all that fun we’re not supposed to be having, is that clear?” Everyone laughs. “Pretend to be polite, go on. Say hi to him, will you?”

“Hello, Professor Styles,” they chant back at him with sly smiles and Harry wonders what _exactly_ Louis promised them today.

He doesn’t have long to wait. Louis does a recap of the previous lessons, rather brilliantly Harry might add, somehow simplifying the Transfiguration formula into something that sounds as easy to him as climbing on a broomstick and taking to the skies. It makes Harry think; for all he goes on about Zayn (and rightfully so, of course), does Louis really have no idea the kind of teacher _he_ is and how similarly they work, grabbing the attention of their students and managing to make it both interesting and engaging? It’s wonderful being able to watch the process of teaching and learning working in harmony like this. It’s things like this that made Harry want to take the job in the first place. He can think of worse jobs than teaching. 

Louis is very on-the-ball, almost manic in his movements, energetic and passionate all at once; Harry is entranced. His hand sweeps over the chalkboard in large motions, hand quick as a flash, both precise and frivolous.

“Right,” Louis says, putting his chalk down and clapping his hands together; pink dust flies up in a cloud in the air when he does, shaking his sleeves back. Harry catches a glimpse of something dark on his skin, but he chalks it up to a trick of the light as Louis' sleeve falls back down. “So. With all that in mind, can anyone tell me what we’re doing today?”

A tow-headed boy with very large hazel eyes raises his hand almost timidly.

“Yes, Peters?”

“Switching, Professor.”

Louis snaps his fingers. “Right you are, five points to Hufflepuff. And who can tell me the two basic principles of Switching?”

Several more hands go up and Louis smiles, putting a hand to his chest. “Look at you bright-eyed scholars! I’m touched. You there, Nicodemus.”

The boy smiles. “It’s Nichols, sir.”

“Close enough. Principles?”

“Erm, the features of the targets are switched at the same time?”

“Yes, and the next one?”

Nichols frowns. “Uh—”

“Not quite. Can someone help out poor Nicodemus here?” The boy opens his mouth but Louis nods, cutting him off. “I know, Nichols, I’m just taking the piss. Besides, doesn’t Nicodemus sound much more adventurous? No offense, I’m sure your parents meant well. My second principle, who has it?”

“I do, sir,” a plucky girl says. Harry turns to look for the source of the voice; she’s sitting in the back of the class. Her dark hair falls in dozens of braids to the middle of her back and he can’t help but watch them as they shift like dark ropes when she sits up.

“Yeah, Rasmussen. Hiding out in the back, are we?”

She grins. “You wish. The second principle states that a change in one of the features is dependent on a change in the other.”

“Excellent, five points to Ravenclaw for Rasmussen’s assistance, and two extra for Ravenclaw because I like the occasional cheek.” Harry can just imagine all the gems trickling down into the House hourglasses in the Great Hall; trust Louis to give out points to students who willingly sass him. “Would anyone like to give me an example of Switching?”

So it goes for the next few minutes, Louis explaining to them how it works and the words of the spell, as well as the hand motion, which is very important, especially in such a finicky branch as Transfiguration. Therein lies the root of most of its difficulty; any foolish wand-waving, and spells backfiring are almost a sure bet. Only the most dedicated witches and wizards can pursue Transfiguration and excel at it; others haven’t the heart or the fortitude, unable to take it seriously enough.

With about half an hour remaining in class, Louis finally announces they’re going to try it out. He pairs them off so they can start switching each other’s ears and noses; some of the other students stick to objects, switching the patterns on tea cups and the colors of books. After around ten minutes, they stop and do the opposite. 

Louis saunters over to where Harry is seated on a three-legged stool. “So,” he says, watching the students, “what do you think?”

Harry thinks that Louis is trying just a tiny bit too hard to sound casual, like this isn’t his life’s work and love that he’s asking Harry to critique right before him. Luckily for Louis, there’s absolutely no way he could possibly critique it in the negative. Louis is a marvel of a person and Harry genuinely believes that from the bottom of his heart.

“I think you made me love Transfiguration.” _And you._ “Didn’t think that was possible. But you’re such a great teacher!”

Louis looks at him, the universe glittering from inside his eyes. “You really think so?”

“Really. You’re incredible.”

Louis laughs. “Well, let’s see if you still think that way in a few minutes.”

Harry finds out what exactly Louis means by that at the end of the period. When the lesson is finally drawing to a close with fifteen minutes left to spare, Louis calls the class to attention.

“Right, so, as most of you are aware, I devised a little idea for the end of this period today.” He gestures to Harry theatrically, perched on his stool, and grins widely. “Fifty points to whoever can perform the best Switch—but please, keep it from the waist up.”

The class laughs and eagerly forms a line, even as Harry shoots a glance at Louis. “You—”

“—are a _great_ teacher, as you said,” Louis says, grinning, “so if you please, _Professor Styles_ , take a deep breath.” He leans over, squeezing Harry’s arm comfortingly and affectionately. Harry’s skin warms to the touch and in that moment, he feels at least a little better about this. They’re not exactly first years; they’re probably great at this magic bit, right?

Wrong, _so_ wrong, Harry thinks, biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing. The first couple of kids don’t do much (Louis explains that their wand movements aren’t precise yet and sends them to practice a bit more at the back of the line) but the others know exactly what they're about. One boy switches their robes, so he’s wearing a large set of leopard-print robes, the length of them pooling on the floor, while Harry is squeezed into a tiny pair of plain black ones, the fabric threatening to rip over his long arms and shoulders.

Harry’s hair seems to be the most popular target; one boy switches his curls for the vines spilling out of a pot by the window, and the girl from before, Rasmussen, switches their hair so he has the long braids spilling down his back and she has his curls. The entire class erupts into laughter at that one and they finish the day off on a high note, despite the fingernails that Harry has now that once belonged to someone else. They’re purple and sparkly. He likes them quite a lot, but Louis doesn’t want to let the girl leave without changing them back, so he mutters a quick “ _Reparifarge!_ ” and they’re back to their usual state again. Harry finds he’s actually quite sad to see the class end, but he’s proud it was Rasmussen of Ravenclaw who got the fifty points.

“That was so much fun,” Harry says for the third time in as many minutes as the two of them are cleaning up the classroom. “Really, Louis, you’re—that was so wonderful, I wish you’d been my Transfiguration teacher, not that one we had back then, what was his name—”

“Wilkshire?” Harry nods enthusiastically; Louis scrunches up his nose, making a face. “I remember him, he was that bloke before McGonagall’s niece. What a wanker. He tried to fail me a few times, actually, now that I think about it.”

“ _You_? What for?”

Louis grins guiltily. “For arguing. I was always raising my hand and questioning what it said in the text. He thought I was a rabble-rouser.”

“Aren’t you?”

Louis nods slyly. “Aren’t I just.”

He finishes putting away the last of the spare textbooks, pushing in the chairs to each desk as he goes, shooting Harry a look. “So I showed you mine,” he says. “Are you going to show me yours?”

Harry glances up from the book he’s been picking through on great Quidditch matches throughout history, halfway through the titillating 1990 World Cup between Scotland and Canada that lasted for a grueling five days.

“I’d love to. I just—” Harry’s stomach turns over itself nervously. “I don’t think I’m all that good. I mean, I’ve got virtually no experience, I don’t really know anything about teaching—”

In one moment, Louis is several rows of desks away, and in the next, he is striding to his own desk, leaning over it to grab Harry by the front of his robes. All at once there’s a hand pressed to the side of his neck and Louis is kissing him, almost missing his mouth in his hurry, but he finds him and he kisses him silent, kisses the doubt right out of him, until Harry is melting in his hands, into nothing but the radiance of Louis and love and a light that he feels between them.

“Shush,” Louis whispers when he lets up, his breath tickling Harry’s lips, “that’s a load of shit and you know it. You’re going to be delightful. All those stars and whatnot. Galaxies. Cosmos.”

Harry laughs. “You’re a natural.”

“Told you.” Slowly, gently, Louis releases him, smoothing out the creases he’s left behind in Harry’s robes. “So what time am I coming by tonight?”

“Hmm. Let’s see, it’s Friday, so I’ve got sixth years after dinner at eight and nine, and second years at eleven and midnight. Take your pick.”

“Ooh, I want the second years. Sixth years are fun, but they’re so much more jaded, aren’t they? Besides, not many pass into it after O.W.L.s, right?”

Harry shakes his head sadly. “I can count the number of seventh years I have on both hands. Truly disparaging. But all right, I’ll see you at eleven?”

“Better make it midnight, love. I like to be up late.”

Now _that’s_ food for thought, Harry thinks as he leaves, ushered out by Louis who has to get ready for his next class. It only occurs to him later, when he’s planning a truly spectacular class for his second years that night, that he forgot his journal.

Well, at least he knows it's in good hands. 

* * *

Harry is a nervous, buzzing wreck all throughout dinner, going over what he can possibly do to impress Louis after that display in his own class. He honestly can’t think of a single damn thing, and he feels like a complete fool as he plans and re-plans his lesson for that night.

Midnight arrives on swift wings, the sky dark and clear as he says goodbye to his first class of second years. It’s freezing outside, but Harry has instituted a system of keeping the kids warm now that it’s December and snowy: for every two telescopes and their accompanying students, he has a small brazier of blue fire that he keeps the kids protected from with a simple Shield Charm. Niall helped him sort it all out; all he has to do each day is Vanish the snow off the observation deck and his classes are ready to go.

Tonight, he thinks, will be a little bit different.

His midnight kids were waiting outside for the eleven o’clock class to end, so the room fills up quickly, students ambling in with yawns. It’s only one day a week plus the occasional weekend romp when the heavens are _particularly_ amazing, but Harry imparts on them that they ought to nap after dinner anyway because sleep is so important and vital to the rest of their studying habits. The fifth and seventh years sigh wistfully when he mentions naps; they wish they could, but their courseload is so much that they don’t have the chance to. Moments in between classes and meals are spent with heads down over books, noses pressed to parchment, stained with ink.

Harry’s cuckoo clock on the wall reads five past midnight when all his second years have finished arriving and Louis still isn’t there. His heart sinks a bit as he turns away, wondering what could have held him up, when he hears footsteps coming up the spiral staircase. Slowly, Louis comes into view and smiles apologetically, waving a few fingers at Harry. Harry nods back, his heart swelling to an impossible size in his chest.

This was the person who made him feel like forever, the person who showed him his _classroom_. Harry knows that sounds silly, but this is all so personal, so much more than he ever thought it would be. There’s something intimate about laying bare your passions and dreams, something revealing about you to the very core of yourself, and Harry, well, he wants to _see_ Louis—and wants Louis to see him, to look back at him from across the universe.

“Right, okay,” Harry says, clearing his throat, hands only shaking a little. “First things first, you may have noticed this isn’t a student but instead the esteemed Transfiguration teacher, Professor Tomlinson.” Louis raises his eyebrows at that but grins all the same. “He’s just here to observe for a bit. Nothing weird, nothing bad, he was just bored and had nothing better to do.”

The class giggles and they say hi to Louis. Louis waves at them as well. “Hi. You there, in the second row, Arrington, is it? You done your essay yet?”

Arrington mutters something indistinct and Louis nods. “That’s what I thought. Better get it done or it’s no more Quidditch practice for you, eh?”

Harry bites his lip to keep from laughing, reminding himself this is a classroom, this is his sacred ground now. It’s time to show Louis what he gets to do just about every night.

“Okay, that bit aside, who wants to share with me something great that happened to them today?” It’s the way Harry starts off each of his classes. Like sleep and eating healthy, Harry believes it’s important that, no matter what kind of day you’re having, to recognize the little things, the events that made you smile, whatever they might be. Sometimes his kids are a little shy, like the first years, but he always thinks his students warm up and are more receptive to learning once they’ve heard happy thoughts.

Several hands go up. Harry picks one of the girls from the middle of the class. “Yeah, Masters?”

“I got a good grade on my Transfiguration essay,” she says, smiling.

Louis nods. “Great stuff on Metamorphmagi, Masters, really.”

“That’s wonderful!” Harry crows, clapping. “Who’s next?”

They go through about three or four more. Someone won a raffle in the Daily Prophet. Someone else got that spot in the orchestra they’d been wanting. Someone’s dog back home had a successful surgery. Harry can’t stop smiling; these are always some of his favorite moments. It’s easy to forget about the stress and strangeness of your own life when you’re busy being happy for somebody else.

When everyone is done, Harry leads them in a round of applause. Finally then, he collects the star charts from the previous class, along with the short papers he assigned just to test everyone’s general knowledge about the Solar System. After, they’re free to start.

“All right,” Harry says. “Last week we talked about the planets, but we didn’t get very far, did we? Tonight, we can go a bit more in-depth.”

He waves his wand and the lights go out, candles breathing smoke into the air. A couple of the students gasp and giggle, their whispers no more than wind in the dark. He feels Louis edge in close to him. “Should I sit down?” he whispers.

Harry shakes his head before he realizes Louis can’t see him; he touches Louis’ hip for confirmation. “No, not just yet.”

Harry walks to the middle of the room, circling the enormous model that sits there, like a hawk.

“All right. So in your first year, you learned some very valuable core facts about Astronomy. If Professor Sinistra’s notes to me were correct, you learned about the origins of the study of Astronomy in your first year—you know, the Neolithic days, the Chinese, the Middle East—as well as the basics of the Solar System. I think we can skip that stuff, right? We all know there are twelve planets and one of them is covered in aliens…”

The dark giggles and he smiles. “Okay, everyone go ahead and leave your bags, stand up, make a circle around the model here, please. Here, _Lumos_.” He holds his wand up, giving them some light to see by as they shuffle in to circle the model, their faces excited and expectant.

When they’re all gathered, Louis standing beside him as well, he points to the model with his wand. At first, there is just a low golden glow, but it grows brighter and brighter, like the lights adorning a Christmas tree, until the room is lit softly and warmly. Slowly, with a wave of Harry’s wand, it begins to spin, whooshing metallically through the air. He feels Louis shift next to him, their sleeves brushing.

“ _Stella speculum luminae_ ,” Harry says, brandishing his wand with a flourish directly at the aperture, the orb beneath the model. It lifts into the air, lighting up from the inside. “Let’s start with Mercury, shall we?”

At the sound of the planet’s name, the model begins to slow and stop spinning. Once it does, light flickers through the room; above them, on the ceiling of the observatory deck, there appears an image of Mercury, almost as though a smaller version of it hangs over them, a dark gray similar to the moon with the occasional small white sunburst across its surface.

Everyone gasps as one.

“Nice, huh? Who can tell me some facts about Mercury?”

They give him what he expects: it is the only planet without a moon, without rings, the smallest of all the planets, the closest to the sun. It’s the sort of things they learned in their first year. But then he decides to ask:

“Who first discovered Mercury?”

Nobody says a word. Harry laughs. “It’s all right if you don’t know, but why don’t you throw out a guess anyway?”

A girl named Rowe raises her hand. “Erm. Thales of Miletus?”

“Ooh, good guess. Anyone else?” Another hand. “Yes, Abernathy?”

“Plato?”

“Great one! It’s actually a trick question.” They groan and he laughs again. “I know, I’m so mean. The truth is that nobody knows who discovered Mercury. As a matter of fact, it’s believed that ancient astronomers always knew about five of the nine planets, not counting ours. Which might those be, d’you think?”

Hands go up this time and Harry’s glad, his chest warm. “Just shout ’em out, go ahead.”

“Mars!” – “Venus?” – “Earth! Wait…” – “Mercury?” – “Not Pluto…”

“You all mostly got it,” he says, nodding. “What are two of our biggest planets?”

“Jupiter and Saturn,” they crow at him and he claps his hands happily.

“Excellent! So – Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. They’re all visible to us even now; we don’t need telescopes to see them, only their locations. So it’s really a matter of who _saw_ them first and recognized that they were planets. Anyone know?”

Somebody mumbles “Copernicus” and Harry puts a hand up to one ear.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

The name spreads throughout them, a little louder, but it’s not good enough. “Still can’t hear you,” Harry sings and then they shout for him, their voices adorable and carrying to the ceiling where Mercury is still hovering. “ _COPERNICUS!_ ”

“Thank you,” he says proudly, “that was well done that time.”

He goes over Mercury’s type, discussing the surface as well as the meaning of the word “terrestrial”, and going into the atmosphere—or exosphere, rather, he says, explaining the difference. They do this for every planet, including Earth, and he quizzes them on moons, though he doesn’t expect them to know much about them yet, he’s just curious about who might know what. A couple students manage to tell him some of Saturn’s moons and he gives them a few House points, impressed.

When they finish up with Pluto (Harry refuses to _not_ teach them about the formerly-ninth planet; it feels wrong), the kids are still buzzing. “Please, Professor,” Bellevue, a Slytherin, says, “can we look at the North Star?”

“Yes, if you can tell me what its real name is.”

“Which one would you like?” she asks haughtily. “The Plough? Or even more specifically, Ursa Minor? Or even _more_ specifically, Polaris?”

Harry can feel Louis quivering with suppressed laughter next to him and he rolls his eyes. “No need for cheek, Bellevue. Polaris will do.”

He says it good-naturedly though, in too good of a mood, and he decides why not? “All right,” he says, sighing theatrically as though it’s some hardship for him, and they cheer. Swinging his wand, he mutters the same spell at the aperture and says clearly, “Ursa Minor, pan out thirty percent.”

Pluto flickers and vanishes. The orb moves, turning, gleaming brilliantly as it finds its mark. A sea of stars appears overhead and everyone emits a bedazzled “ _ooooh_ ” at the swath of night sky above them. Ursa Minor is shaped like a spoon, a smaller one than the more prolific Ursa Major nearby, and yet glimmering just over them, taking up the entire space of the observatory’s roof, it feels tremendously large. Polaris is so bright, the last star in the tail of Ursa Minor’s handle, that the model no longer needs to light up; the entire room is bathed in its radiance.

Nobody says a word. They all just stand there, necks craned, looking up at the magnified sky. It’s crazy, Harry thinks, that because of some brain functions and the reflection of light, they can see what they’re looking at right now. Science is amazing, really; science is the reason he can feel Louis slipping his hand into his and squeezing, nerve endings firing straight to the pleasure center in his brain, his face practically aching with how much he’s smiling.

He looks over at Louis, already knowing that Louis is looking right back at him. His eyes reflect Polaris’ silver light, gleaming like shiny Sickles in the dark. “Star boy,” Louis whispers, almost impossibly quiet. He reaches up, tucking one of Harry’s curls aside. “How you shine.”

Harry has a hard time focusing after that, forcing himself to pull his hand out of Louis’, though he can feel the ghost of that gentle pressure against his skin for the rest of the class period. They spend it outside in the cold on the balcony that wraps around his tower, his braziers of blue fire blazing, the kids with their faces pressed to the eyepieces of their telescopes. Their assignment tonight is to pick their favorite planet and tell him _why_ it’s their favorite planet, as well as go over what type it is, what the surface is like, and what makes it unique.

At about five minutes to one, Harry calls the class to a halt, telling them to pack up their telescopes. He waits for them, watching them break down their tripods and fold everything back up into the pouches that fit easily into their bags.

This is a tradition he’s started. Just like with the way he starts his classes, his students thought this was a little odd at first, but they’ve grown used to the idea and—if he says so himself—even look forward to it.

When everyone is done, they turn to him, waiting, silvered by the moonlight. He rubs his hands together in the chill, wearing the gloves Louis bought him, racking his brain.

“All right. What’s the best thing about Switzerland?”

“What, Professor Styles?” they all ask in practiced unison. Harry hears Louis ask, too.

“I don’t know, but their flag is a huge plus!”

A little more than half the class gets it, but some of the others don’t seem to know what exactly he’s referring to. Suddenly the noise increases, all of them laughing now, and Harry can’t understand why until he realizes that Louis has transfigured his robes into the Swiss flag, a large white plus sign covering his torso. Now everybody gets the joke and Louis is laughing against his will, rolling his eyes.

“Terrible,” he says. “Truly terrible.”

“Like I said.” Harry grins. “Art.”

Afterward, when all the students have shuffled out with cheerful goodbyes, Louis helps him put out all the fires and clean up some of the general mess—broken quills, scraps of parchment, and the like—and he talks the entire time.

“You’re so _ridiculous_ ,” he says, looking at Harry. “ _I’m_ such a great teacher and _you’ve_ had no experience, are you joking? You’re—” He breaks off, crumpling a piece of parchment in one hand and shaking his head. “Harry, come here.”

Harry eyes him warily with a half-smile from across the room. “Why?”

“Harold.”

“All right, all right. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch.”

“Knickers, eh? You always thinking about my knickers?”

“Absolutely, always,” Harry says, laughing when Louis swings an arm around his waist and slings him in, kissing him on his cheeks, his jaw, his chin. Harry laughs, Louis’ carefully tended scruff tickling his face, and he squirms away, wiggling out of Louis’ arms. “Shoo, Lou. Be a pal and finish up for me?”

“Says the tart who just shooed me? I think not.”

Harry pouts as best as he can, thrilled to see Louis’ faux-haughty face melt beneath his gaze, his features relaxing, a slow smile sitting pretty on his lips. “Oh, that’s not even fair,” he mutters.

Harry laughs. “Gotcha. The spell for shutting the model down is _stella speculum tenebrae_.” He skirts away from Louis’ reaching hand, ambling towards the door to his office and the living quarters beyond.

“Where are you going?”

He looks back over his shoulder, smiling. “You’re not the only one with a surprise, you know!”

He leaves Louis to wonder about that, darting into his office, his heart going so fast it’s a wonder he hasn’t fainted dead away yet. It’s nothing like fear, not a hint of nervousness in it, but excitement and the firm, unshakable knowledge that this is where he’s meant to be. He knows it as surely as though Fate told him herself, whispering it in his ear like a secret needing to be safeguarded. It’s okay if circumstances force them apart, because he knows that he and Louis will always find their way back to each other. They already had.

He moves quickly, going through his little flat and flinging spells about, cleaning up, setting up, breaking down, moving around. When it’s just the way he wants, just the way he pictured, he goes to the loo to freshen up, running his hands through his springy curls, smoothing on lip balm, and spritzing some of the cologne he got for Christmas last year on his neck, touching his scented fingertips to the skin behind his ears. It’s been a long time since he’s tried to properly woo anyone, and he hopes that this goes according to plan.

Louis is waiting for him when Harry comes back out, not wearing his robes now, just a pair of black skinny jeans and a loose, flowing crescent moon-patterned shirt that is half-tucked in. Louis is sitting on his desk, playing with a smaller model that Harry has there of the planets going around the sun; he’s got it spinning so fast that there’s a _pop!_ and Neptune goes flying off, disappearing under Harry’s desk.

“Oh, shit,” Louis mutters, tapping the model with his wand so it stops. He notices Harry standing there and slides off his desk, scattering some parchment in the process, saying, “ _Shit_ ,” a bit louder. “You didn’t see that,” he says, eyes wide. 

Harry laughs. “It’s okay, Louis, it’s just a model. We’ll grab it and put it back.”

Louis volunteers to fetch it because it’s his fault and he’s smaller. He pulls it out and holds it up triumphantly when he does, a cobweb or two clinging to his shoulders. He points his wand at the model again, arm extended statuesquely. “ _Reparo_ ,” he says, and Neptune flies back onto its perch. “There, good as new!”

He looks over at Harry, only taking in his changed appearance then. “Harry, you look…”

“Odd?”

Louis shakes his head. “Beautiful.”

Harry blushes scarlet. He can’t believe that this is happening, that he’s here and Louis is with him. But it’s real and it’s true; there’s no denying it now. He crooks a finger at Louis, beckoning him over. He takes his hand, leading Louis through the door into his tiny flat.

Louis stares and Harry’s chest expands with joy at the look on his face. He has more than a dozen candles floating in the air in his sitting room like the ones that hover over the Great Hall. There’s a fire burning brightly in the hearth and Harry has spread several blankets on the floor, along with an obscene amount of mismatched pillows in jewel tones. In the center of the floor, there is a platter covered in helpings of fruit, along with a crystal carafe filled with a dark red wine and a couple of goblets.

“Harry, you—you did all this?”

He nods. “D’you like it?”

“Of course! This is…probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Louis kicks his shoes off, unwinding his robes from his shoulders, showing off the dark blue jumper and black skinny jeans beneath. Stepping carefully over pillows, Louis plops down in front of the fire. He holds out his hands, gesturing for Harry to come over. Harry does as he is bidden, unzipping his boots and leaving them next to Louis’ flat sneakers. Just looking at Louis, firelight flickering over his face and casting shadows beyond them, is difficult for Harry. He’s so beautiful, so intense that it’s all he can do to keep his hands from shaking as he reaches for some of the fruit.

“This is gorgeous, Harry,” Louis says, peering at him intently.

“Yeah?”

“Really. I’m blown away.”

Harry pauses, a large maroon grape halfway to his mouth. There’s something about Louis’ tone. “But?”

“ _But_ ,” he says, sliding a sidelong glance at Harry, sly and impish, “maybe we could—” He breaks off, watching as Harry pops the grape into his mouth, moving his lips and tongue over it slowly. His eyes narrow.

Harry smiles, swallowing the grape, watching the warring emotions flit over Louis’ face. “I thought you’d never ask.”

No sooner are the words out that Louis is on him, their mouths meeting eagerly, hands tearing at clothing. The platter explodes out of the way in a scatter of fruit, grapes rolling this way and that, melon and berries bouncing away, some lost to the fire beside them. The goblets hit the stone floor with a resounding clank and someone kicks over the carafe, Harry thinks it’s him, but he doesn’t care because Louis’ tongue is licking hotly into his mouth, his hands pulling the scarf tying back his curls, setting them free.

Harry helps Louis get free of his jumper, yanking it off, and he gasps when he sees what lies beneath. Louis’ arms and torso are littered with tattoos, animals and words, shapes and little drawings inked dark and lovely into his skin. His body is a veritable canvas, a scrapbook chronicling little moments throughout his life, and Harry is momentarily dumbstruck.

“You have tattoos,” he says reverently, reaching out a hand to touch one below his collarbone, the number 78. 

Louis nods, catching Harry’s wrist and holding his hand there, palm flat against his bare chest. Harry can feel his heart going wildly through his skin. “Sometimes I have to hide them with magic, so the kids don’t see, y’know? Parents have some odd ideas about tattoos nowadays.”

He can't believe he never knew, but that quick flash of color on Louis' skin earlier suddenly makes sense. Harry wants to study all of them, wants to ask Louis why for each one, wants to know what he was going through at the moment they were done, and what they mean to him. He wants to kiss each and every one.

He’s in the process of doing that, trailing his lips over the words _It Is What It Is_ scrawled on Louis’ chest, when he sees one out of the corner of his eye that halts him completely. He turns his head, grabbing Louis’ right arm and holding it up.

Louis laughs. “What?”

There on Louis’ arm is a compass, the needle pointing north, but instead of an _N_ , there is the word _HOME_. Harry can’t breathe.

“Haz, what’s wrong?”

Harry makes short work of the few remaining buttons on his own shirt, letting it fall backwards off his shoulders, turning to show Louis his left arm. There below his shoulder is a ship tattooed into his skin, what looks to be a man o’ war flying English colors.

Harry looks at Louis, but he’s staring at the ship. Slowly, he raises his arm, looking at the compass. With just a quick movement, the point marked _HOME_ is clearly declaring Harry as that destination, marking him with that honor. His breath catches when Louis looks at him this time, his eyes wide but fierce. He licks his lips.

“This is…”

“Spooky?”

“Completely. But it’s clear, isn't it?” Louis reaches out to touch Harry’s arm, fingers tracing the lines of every mast and sail. It’s the only tattoo he has (so far), the only one he ever felt compelled to get. Now, he thinks he knows why.

“We’re meant to be,” Louis says. _It’s settled_.

This time, when they kiss, their movements are less frenzied, more purposeful as they carefully undress each other. Harry has never felt more okay, more welcomed, in his own skin than right now, with Louis looking at him, breathless and adoring, like he’s the only thing he wants. Louis runs his hands through Harry’s hair, gently guiding him backwards, laying him down among the sea of pillows, mouth closing over his, slick with desire.

“Harry,” Louis says, breathing into his neck, their skin damp with sweat and the spilled wine, dark droplets clinging to them and wavering with each of Louis’ steady, slow thrusts. Harry can hardly breathe, Louis chasing every doubt from inside of him with every firm drive of his hips. His mind is a sky lit by fireworks, explosions of color and light, stars going supernova as Louis chants “mine, mine, mine” against his skin in time with their bodies and Harry comes with Louis’ taste in his mouth, Louis’ name on his lips, and his hand wrapped around the compass on Louis’ arm, digging his nails into the word _home…_

* * *

The Tower is deliciously warm when Harry comes to an hour or two later, legs entangled with Louis’. They’re on the floor beside the fireplace, wrapped in the coverlets and quilts he put down, the silk and satin ones gilded with glimmering thread in colors like saffron and jasper that he bought while he was on holiday in India. The air is thick with the scent of sex, wine, and lavender with jasmine, the fragrance rising from the blankets and Harry’s hair. The only sound alive in the room is their mingled breaths and the crackling of the wood in the hearth being eaten alive by heat. Harry rolls over, pressing a sticky kiss to Louis’ shoulder.

He stirs, turning his face to look at Harry, cracking one eyelid to peer at him. “H’lo,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Hello,” Harry whispers back, smiling. He can’t help but gaze at Louis unabashedly, completely enchanted and in love with everything about him, with sleep smeared across his face and his hair a mess that falls into his mesmerizing eyes.

Louis lifts his head up from one of the many pillows scattered around them and asks, “You okay?”

Harry nods, touching the side of Louis’ head, gently pushing him back down. “I’m fine. Amazing, actually. Relax.”

Louis makes a face at him but does as he’s told, rolling over onto his back, one arm behind his head. He reaches for his wand where it sits, protruding from the pocket of his robes on the floor a short distance away, pointing it down at their stained and soaked blankets. “ _Tergeo_ ,” he says, clearing his throat, and the spilled wine vanishes, the blankets dry once more.

He points it straight up in the air. “ _Accio smokes_ ,” he murmurs, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

“You smoke?”

“Every once in a while. Like a poorly functioning chimney.”

Harry snorts. He doesn’t say it because they both know what Harry is thinking, they both know the simple truth: _You shouldn’t_. Louis returns his dry look with a blown kiss, winking.

Harry rolls his eyes. “How visual. I’m picturing what’s-his-name in that Disney movie. The chimney sweep.”

“Right,” Louis says, nodding enthusiastically as his silver cigarette case finally worms its way out of his robes and zooms into his waiting hand. “I could do a much better Cockney than that guy.”

“Well, go on, then.”  

Harry dissolves into helpless giggles, curling up on himself like a pill bug, as Louis struggles through “Chim-Chim-Cher-Ee” with a torturous Cockney accent, making up the lyrics he doesn’t know, all with a black, gold-filtered cigarette hanging precariously from his bottom lip. He finally stops when Harry begs him to, eyes streaming with tears, and Louis points the tip of his wand at his cigarette with a smug look at the convulsing boy beside him. “ _Incendio_ ,” he mutters, flame igniting the end, the paper and tobacco flaring brightly to life.

“Hey, Lou,” Harry manages, wiping at his face, “what did the old chimney say to the younger chimney?”

Louis grins, like he probably already knows the answer (Harry’s almost sure he does), but he gives in anyway. “What?”

“You’re too young to smoke!”

Louis chuckles, exhaling a plume of whorls into the air. “Absolute garbage.”

“You love it.”

Louis laughs because it’s true. He waves his wand at the curlicues of smoke lazily and they take some shape and form, becoming a rose with winding vines that grow from its thorny stem, reaching out for Harry.

“That’s lovely.”

“So are you,” Louis says, ruffling Harry’s curls, stroking them fondly. “So lovely.”

Harry watches Louis smoke with his eyes closed, his face smooth and worry-free, the curve of his lips soft and content. Harry could stare at him like this forever, taking in the sight of silvery-blue smoke curling out of his nose, the paper of his cigarette burning down to bitter-smelling ash. When he’s finished, he transfigures his cigarette case into a small, concave ash tray to stub the filter out in.

Louis is so beautiful, so funny and wild and endearing, that Harry is struck by it all at once, the knowledge threatening to overwhelm him and send his world spinning off its axis. “Lou?”

Louis looks sleepy again, eyes half-closed. “Yes, love?”

“Why me?”

“Why you?”

“Yeah, y’know, why me?” He gestures between them so Louis understands.

Louis turns to look at him, the realization of what he’s asking breaking over his face, eyes widening—and then he laughs. He actually, genuinely laughs, the ass. Harry watches and waits, raising his eyebrows at his incorrigible pixie, waiting for him to explain. When he finally rolls back over, still clutching his abdomen, he says, “Oh, god. _Harry_.”

“What?”

“Why _you_? Are you serious?”

“Deadly. Tell me.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me think about this for a second.”

He continues to snicker throughout his ruminations and Harry pinches his hip gently. “Stop laughing!”

“Right, I’m sorry. Very serious business, this.” He puts a finger against his lips and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Okay, you know how stars are basically the bins of space?”

“Louis.”

He opens his eyes, looking at Harry. “Hey, you’ve said it yourself. Right? They’re just burning gas.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So that’s how you see them. But do you know how _I_ see them?”

Harry’s catching on, but he indulges Louis anyway. He’s always had a love for theatrics. “How?”

“They’re like…jewels in a treasure chest! They’re light and radiance, fighting through all of space to be seen by us, _demanding_ to be noticed, to be felt. And…” Louis shrugs, as if it’s the simplest concept in the world. “That’s how I feel about you.”

“So let me get this straight,” Harry says slowly, working it through, “I’m trash, but you don’t see me that way...You see me like pretty trash, so it’s okay?”

Louis barks out a laugh and throws himself at Harry, who squeals, trying to fight him off, but they end up instead embarking on one of the more vicious tickle battles Harry’s ever had in his life. Finally, Louis wins, straddling his hips, their chests pressed together.

“I win,” Louis says. He grins, dipping his head to lick the tip of Harry’s nose; Harry screws up his face and mewls in protest. Louis smirks. “Do I win?”

“Yes, you win, you win,” Harry shouts, breathless in more ways than one.

“Yes, I do,” Louis says proudly, leaning forward, their skin shifting and sliding, touching everywhere, so much so that Harry isn’t sure where he stops and Louis begins. “Wanna know why?”

“Because you’ve got me pinned to the floor,” Harry leans up to nip at Louis’ collarbone, “with your precious, fit body?”

“Well, yes. But I win because I’ve got you.” Louis hovers over Harry’s mouth, smiling slowly. “So. Does that answer your question?”

* * *

An hour later, they’re outside on the balcony, wrapped up in so many blankets that Harry feels like an Eskimo, one of the braziers lit beside them, the blue fire casting an eerie glow on their skin and the frost coating their surroundings. Louis wanted to look at the stars and who is Harry to deny _anyone_ that? Not that he could, not with Louis.

Louis’ left arm enters Harry’s field of vision. “What’s that one?”

“Miletus.”

His hand moves to the nearly-invisible pinprick just beside it. “That one?”

“Etna.”

“And there?”

“Mephistopheles.”

“My god, you’re good. Over there?”

“Anaximander.”

“What about right there?”

“Pamela.”

Louis freezes, a laugh startling out of him. His breath is a cloud of cold in the air. “What?”

“You don’t think I know every star in the sky, do you? Nobody does.”

“You’ve just been making them up this whole time?” Harry nods and laughs loudly when Louis gasps, horrified. “You mean there’s no Star Pamela?”

Before he can really work himself up into a rant about how awful Harry is, Harry grabs his wrist, angling his hand up to clasp Louis’ so they can point them out together. “Do you want to know my _favorites_?”

“Of course.”

“All right. I have a top five, in no particular order.” He guides their clasped hands, pointing at a distinct set of three stars close together in a line. “That’s Orion there, his belt, y’see? Betelgeuse is one of my favorites; it’s the middle star in the belt.”

“Betelgeuse?” Louis giggles. “Like the movie?”

“Like the movie.” He moves their hands to the northwest, landing their index fingers on a star with a reddish glow. “Now that one is Aldebaran. Do you know what constellation that is?”

“I do, actually! Taurus.”

“Right you are, Lou. _Bull’s eye_ ,” he says, and Louis snickers, poking Harry’s side. 

“What’s next?”

“Sirius, actually. In Canis Major.” Harry drags their hands south. “It’s the brightest star in the night sky.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. Brighter even than our sun. Want to know something cool about it? Zayn told me.”

Louis nods.

“That’s where the term ‘dog days’ comes from.” Louis snuggles in closer to him, perhaps recognizing storytime in his voice, one of his small hands warming the skin of Harry’s chest. “In the ancient days, Sirius used to rise just before the sun, although sometimes it was also at the same time. Because of that, the people of Rome believed that this star, this mad dog in the sky, who was the cause of their painfully hot weather. So every year, in the spring, they would sacrifice a red dog to the star, to appease his rage.”

“Rome, huh?” Louis remarks on the tail end of a yawn. “Like Romulus and—”

“Precisely. A love story for the ages, hm?”

“What are the other two?”

“Oh. You can’t see them right now, but the Sagittarius star cloud in the Milky Way— _shhh_ , Louis, it _does_ count as one—and Vega, the star in the constellation Lyra.” He lets their hands fall back down to their warm nest of blankets. “They’re more easily seen during spring and summer, so I can’t show you.”

There’s a brief pause before Louis shifts against him and says, “You _could_ show me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like…I dunno. After term, when I get out of here.”

Harry’s heart nearly stops in his chest at those words, his brain straining hard to catch up. “You mean—”

“Only if you want. And if you’ve got no other plans.”

“Right, yeah. I…I’d love to, Louis. I think it’d be brilliant.”

“Yeah?” He’s about to fall asleep again, but Louis scoffs suddenly anyway, his voice dropping lower.  “You just like teaching.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding, smiling, his insides fluttering like the wings of a thousand butterflies. “Nothing to do with you whatsoever. Not even remotely.”

Louis curls in tighter to Harry, burrowing his face against his chest. “’M tired,” he mumbles. “Late.”

“Yeah. We should go back in. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to freeze to death.”

“Ooh, observant one, aren’t you?” Louis kisses Harry’s chest once, twice, his breath warm, sending shivers tiptoeing down Harry’s spine. “My Sirius.”

Harry frowns. “First I'm trash, now I'm your dog?”

“Oh, shush. You're _obviously_ the brightest star in my sky.” His eyes close, eyelashes tickling Harry’s skin. “I can’t believe I have you.”

“Me too,” Harry whispers, looking up at the ocean of stars above them, thinking of Louis’ compass, of the ship on his arm, his guiding light. “My Polaris." He looks down at Louis. "Y'know, someday, I’ll move the stars for you.”

* * *

He’s not sure what it is that wakes him. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the chill. Maybe it’s the sudden lack of warmth and presence beside him. Whatever it is, Harry wakes all at once without any warning, blinking against the grey light filtering in through his windows groggily. He groans, rolling over, burying his face in an emerald pillow. He has some strange memories, some of them coming back to him in flashes: the urgent flapping of wings, a hurried whisper, a kiss on his forehead.

Harry opens his eyes and lifts his head. There is no Louis next to him, just a tangled mess of blankets, pillows and fruit sprinkled disorderly throughout his sitting room. The fire has burned down to ashes; Harry wraps himself in one of the blankets and sits up, shivering.

“Lou?”

There’s no answer, nothing but the quiet creaking of Pleiades’ cage where it hangs in the corner, spinning slightly.

He frowns at that. Normally it only spins when empty.

Climbing to his feet and clutching his blanket, he hops over to the corner, disentangling one arm to lift the spangled covering of her cage. Just as he thought, it’s empty. His frown deepens, as does his worry; she always comes back promptly at this time just before dawn after a night spent hunting. Where could she be?

Stepping over remnants of the fruit from the night before, Harry goes to the door to his office and flings it open. Still no Louis or Pleiades, but there is evidence of at least one of them.

Slowly, Harry edges into the room, looking at his desk. In a slender glass vase there is an enormous bouquet of purple stargazer lilies and bluebells, petals catching the glow of the sun rising over the horizon coming in through the window, their color the most vibrant Harry’s ever seen in any flora before (and as a self-professed Herbology geek, he would know). The meaning behind the lilies doesn’t escape him and he laughs, shaking his head. He’s about to wonder why bluebells when he remembers—the riddle of Ravenclaw. He told Louis that once.

_What looks like a bell, but does not ring, yet its knell makes the angels sing?_

He steps up to his desk, bending to smell the flowers. They’re fragrant, but faint; he shoots them a puzzled glance. There’s no note attached to them, either. “What is going on,” Harry murmurs to himself, lightly stroking the petal of a lily with one finger.

Before his eyes, it changes from a stargazer lily, its color fading, height shrinking, until standing before him in the vase among the flowers is a piece of parchment folded to _look_ like a flower. He catches snippets of ink on it inside, the handwriting familiar to him. It takes all of two seconds for it to dawn on him precisely what he’s looking at.

He laughs out loud and begins touching every flower, every petal and bell, tapping their stems and heads until all that remains is a bouquet of paper flowers, a sheaf of parchment folded into simple, yet elegant shapes. Louis _would_ , wouldn’t he? Still, Harry has to hand it to him: It’s a beautiful bit of magic.

He pulls the parchment flowers from inside the vase, slowly and carefully unfolding them. Some are blank, some are Harry’s own papers to grade, and some… Some are covered in Louis’ loose curling handwriting. There are two from Louis.

Harry finds the one with his name at the top of it, his heart beating hard in his chest like thunder. It seems Louis wrote ‘Haz’ first but then crossed it out with his quill, writing ‘Harry’ instead.

_Harry—_

_I have so many things to say right now and no idea where to begin. That’s how it goes, isn’t it? I guess I’ll just have to start at the beginning, really, and hope you understand. First off, I’m sorry to leave you in the middle of the night and to have to say goodbye like this. I tried waking you up, I dunno if you remember, but you were just so tired and sweet, I didn’t want to wake you up with that. _

Harry stops, his face hot, the sound of a lashing rainstorm filling his ears. _To have to say goodbye…_ What is Louis talking about? Surely he just popped out to change and brush his teeth, he’ll be back in a flash and they’ll go down to breakfast together, because…

 _I got an owl from my mum in the middle of the night_ , the letter continues, _apparently my dad—my real dad—was in an accident of some sort and admitted to a hospital, a Muggle one. The sense I got was that it’s quite bad and he was asking after me. I wouldn’t leave you unless I absolutely had to, but it’s family. You understand. I’m not sure when I’ll be back or what’s even going to happen, but I wanted you to know I’m sorry, that last night was—last night was so important to me, it was everything I’ve ever wanted and you’re divine, and that I’ll write you as often as I can. I hope this hasn’t hurt you; that would kill me._

_Write me back as soon as you wake up and see this. I’ll send Pleiades back (sorry, she came with me when I went, you know how she is). Please let me know you’re all right._

_Yours,  
Louis_

The words flash and enlarge in Harry’s mind as he takes a moment, a number of emotions going through him all at once: concern, fear, worry. Louis should’ve woken him, should’ve told him, he could’ve _done_ something. He’s not sure what, but he could’ve at least been there for him. There’s an aching pit in the center of Harry’s being, a hole that seems to take up all of him. He’s sad for Louis, sad that this happened, and his hands clench instinctively, wanting to do something, to help, to _fix,_ but there’s nothing he can do.

 _Please let me know you’re all right_. Harry shakes his head, scowling. Louis’ had a family emergency and he _still_ wants to make sure that Harry’s okay, caring more about his well-being than Harry ever thought it was possible for someone to do—and he’s never been more _annoyed_ by it. Louis is so obviously the one who needs to be taken care of this time that it shoots through him with a twinge of pain, his heart sore.

As if summoned by magic, Harry hears a hooting just then from out on the balcony. Throwing down the parchment, he runs from his office out to the freezing observation deck, a blast of cold hitting him through the blanket and rendering him momentarily paralyzed, every system shutting down and rebooting in the time it takes him to reach the balcony.

Pleiades is sitting on the railing, peering at him blearily. She looks exhausted, feathers ruffled and inky black eyes half-closed. He offers her a blanket-covered arm and he carries her inside to his sitting room, letting her sit down beside the newly-made fire and warm up for a spell. He brings her a dish of water that she drinks from eagerly; only when she’s nibbling on one of his dropped raspberries does he remove the slip of parchment that’s tied to her leg.

_Here’s the address for the hospital and my uncle’s place, we’ll be staying there in London while this is going on. x, Louis_

Harry goes back to the office, rummaging around in his desk drawers for a quill that actually works, muttering triumphantly when he finds one. He writes a quick letter back.

_Lou,_

_Of course I understand! It’s all just bad timing. I’m so, so sorry about your dad; keep me posted on how he’s doing, yeah? Take care of yourself, please. Remember to eat and wash your pants and all that. Write me back when you’ve got time to spare. I’ll be here when you get back._

_xo,  
Harry_

He wants to say that he loves him, so obliterated by the knowledge that he failed to do so the night before when it would’ve meant the most, but he can’t bring himself to write it, to put it down in ink on something as fallible as parchment when he knows it ought to be said, so he resists. He hunts down an envelope and writes out the address for his uncle’s house on it.

Pleiades is dozing in front of the fire when he comes back in; when she opens her eyes and sees the letter, she blinks and hoots reproachfully.

“It’s not for you, silly,” Harry says, holding out an arm for her. She jumps onto him and he carries her to her cage. “It’s bedtime for you. I’ll get one of the school owls to deliver it.”

She narrows her eyes at that, but doesn’t dispute it. He bids her goodnight with a soft pet and closes the cage, covering it with the fabric to block out the light.

He dresses slowly and takes the walk to the Owlery at a snail’s pace. He should’ve felt good, _had_ felt amazing the night before, but this was all so much at once. Not only had something bad happened to someone in Louis’ life, but he was gone, torn from Harry’s hand by circumstances and it stung.

The owls hoot at him softly when he walks in, most of them bedding down for the day, but he manages to find one that looks alert and ready to go. It’s an eastern screech owl with lively eyes and it trills at him happily, nibbling gently on his fingers when he ties the letter to its leg.

“Be safe, all right? London can be a scary place for an owl,” Harry says quietly, scratching its eye ridges. “Go on, then.”

It swoops off out of one of the large openings in the wall and Harry watches it go, his chin in his hands. Looking out across the forest, he sees the first snowflakes of the day come floating down and thinks he’s never felt a winter so bleak before, not in all his life.

* * *

Hogwarts seems quieter without Louis there, leeched of nearly all of its light and laughter. Classes go on as usual, with McGonagall taking over Louis’ classes for the first day, but his students are sullen and confused. She ends up having to quell a rebellion in the wake of the new supply teacher's arrival, a woman called Fairweather who’s decent as far as Harry can tell, but as he and the students agree: She’s no Louis.

Their group is more subdued at mealtimes as well, the lads unhappy to hear of Louis’ leave of absence. Even Liam, who has been bleeding money through bets to Louis the entire semester, is upset. “Just doesn’t feel right without him, does it?” he asks at the table one night and they all nod in agreement over their beef wellington and potatoes.

Harry mopes for a good three days, spending all of his free time in the library, his new hiding place now that he has no reason to spend so much time in the staffroom. It’s either that or long walks around the grounds, retracing their steps from the fall, regardless of the cold. He always goes numb after a few minutes so he doesn’t mind.

One afternoon he’s in there, pretending to grade papers but actually glumly staring off into space, when he hears a throat clear quietly behind him.

He turns. Felicite Tomlinson is standing there, holding a book on defensive spells, for Liam’s class, no doubt. It’s startling how much she looks like Louis, with the same cinnamon hair kept carefully in a fishtail braid, the same smile and pretty green eyes. She stares back at him for a second before approaching his table.

“He’s coming back,” she says quietly, her voice only audible to him. “You _do_ know that, right?”

Harry opens his mouth and shuts it again. He could say _I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Tomlinson_ , but he already knows that there is no point in lying to her; she’s too smart for that. So he just leans back in his chair, his shoulders slumped.

“I know. But I still feel so helpless.”

She nods. “I know. He’s mad about you, you know? He sent me a letter and all he could ask about was you. Not how am I doing in my classes or anything, not that he needs to ask.” She smiles good-naturedly and he sees Louis there in her face. “He’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know,” he says again.

“Then there’s no sense in crying over spilled potions, is there?” When he stares, she winks at him and just like that, she’s gone.

It must be Confront Harry About Louis Day because no more than an hour later, Niall can no longer stand it and comes to fetch him, a look of resolute determination on his normally chipper face.

“So this is where you’ve been holed up,” he says, looking around. He shudders. “Place gives me the creeps.” When Harry doesn’t berate him for that (as an ardent supporter of libraries, he often does), Niall’s face turns a shade of serious.

“Mate, we’re worried about yeh,” he says, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Come with us to Hogsmeade this weekend. Get out of your own head for a bit.”

Harry hesitates at first, but Niall shakes him bracingly. “He’s comin’ back, Harry. He’s not gone forever. You’ll be here when he gets back and which d’you think he’d rather see, a happy you or an unshowered, depressed you?”

Harry already knows the answer to that. “Fine,” he says, shoving Niall’s arm off him, “and I _am_ showering, you dick.”

“What’s that smell, then?”

“You, obviously.”

He goes to Hogsmeade with them and they meet for drinks at the Three Broomsticks and Harry manages to smile, having a good time with the three of them and Professor Longbottom, who stops by for a little while. He drinks a little bit more than he would have normally, but it’s okay because he’s _allowed_. Zayn pours him into bed with Niall’s help and the next day, he actually feels…better.

Felicite and Niall are right; there’s no sense in him wallowing. Much like his proposed solution for hangovers, he realizes that the only cure for his melancholy is action, so he throws himself back into school. His third years start to learn about galaxies and the fifth years are really showing some amazing growth with memorizing moons. Unfortunately, with midterms coming up, he has to assign them more homework, but it gives him more material to grade and less time to think about Louis, who has only sent one letter since his abrupt departure, all of it confusing Muggle medical jargon that neither of them know how to decode.

He even decides to volunteer with the Yule Ball for Liam and Zayn’s sake. Their plans for the décor are amazing from what Harry can see of them, and they enlist his help to book a band to come and play since they trust his taste in music, as well as search through the Room of Requirement for anything they might find useful. They come upon a large chandelier formed together of antlers, the bone shined white and perfect. If they wrap it with holly and some frost, it’ll look particularly lovely and Harry suggests they take it. As they’re hauling it out, however, they knock into a cupboard; it falls over and spills a boggart out, instantly turning into a banshee once it locks its sights on Niall.

They drop the chandelier. Niall locks up for a moment, his face going the color of spoiled milk as the wailing woman looks up from where she’s washing something in the murky water of a trough. When Harry looks closely, he can see it’s Niall’s Quidditch referee robes that she’s got, the material stained dark with blood. Her nails are long and sharp, her waxy face sunken in. Her stringy hair blows out around her head as she opens her mouth to wail—

“ _Riddikulus_!” Niall says, whipping his wand at her. She clutches her throat, coughing horrendously; a toad comes tumbling out of her mouth and lands with a wet _splat_ on the floor. It croaks loudly.

Niall and Liam laugh uproariously and the boggart pauses, confused. Harry just shakes his head. “That’s disgusting, Niall.”

The boggart turns, focusing in on the sound of Harry’s voice. It changes from the weeping woman into a large, towering black figure; Harry shrinks back as shadows loom before him. A dementor hovers in the air directly in front of him, the hole in its tattered robes emitting a horrifying rasping sound as it sucks in a rattling breath. Harry’s knees go weak, every single star leeching out of his mind, his chest growing as cold as the air outside. His mind goes gray, a lifetime without Louis stretching out before him…

 _Louis_.

He thinks of the night they spent together, of every other moment they have, the two of them laughing, Louis’ hand touching his arm, their tattoos—

He has just raised his arm when two other voices simultaneously shout, “ _Expecto patronum!_ ”

The Room of Requirement erupts with light as two corporeal silver forms burst to life from two different wands at once. A leopard shark winds through the air sinuously, its body spotted and slick. It dives straight into the boggart-dementor, followed by a flash of silver that moves so fast, Harry almost doesn’t see it. It’s an otter darting through the air, both marine Patronuses swimming in wild, furious circles.

Harry’s heart jumps at the sight, spurring him on, and he manages a word. “ _Riddikulus_!”

The dementor slips on the stone floor, tripping over its own robes. Its arms wind-mill wildly before it falls backwards, vanishing in a _poof_ of black smoke that turns white and becomes a cloud, sailing into the air peacefully. Niall’s laugh echoes off the roof at that and the boggart goes meandering off, floating to some other dark corner of the room.

When the proverbial dust is settling, Harry slides a glance at Niall. A smile still lingers on his lips, his eyes up, towards the ceiling.

Harry nudges him with one elbow. “Thought your Patronus was a mink, mate.”

Niall blinks, shocked out of his reverie. He looks down, holding up his wand as if to inspect it, like the answer will be right there for him to see. “Yeah, dunno. That was—that was weird.”

Harry looks past Niall to Zayn where he’s standing by Liam. He looks visibly distraught, Liam comforting him with an arm around his shoulders. Zayn is explaining something to him, but his tone is quiet, inaudible to Harry where he stands several feet away. He, too, is holding his wand out, looking at it strangely.

“Was Zayn’s always a leopard shark?”

If Harry isn’t mistaken, it was the sinuous aforementioned cat beforehand, evidenced by the large painting he has in his classroom. The leopard within sleeps and paces around in the setting of its frame, a leafy jungle. Every now and again it’s gone, which sets a thrill going through Harry’s heart; he wonders what other paintings it goes stalking through. Once, he saw it go charging through a gathering of nuns in a painting depicting the Tickle Torture of Esmeralda the Effervescent. He could have sworn he heard Esmeralda cackle as the nuns dove for cover.

“I’m not sure,” Niall mutters, but Harry thinks he hears a bit of a lie in his voice. Still, he doesn’t press it; if and when his best mate is ready to come to him about whatever is going on between them, he will. Harry will just have to wait until that happens.

They manage to haul the chandelier out but the mood is subdued once again. Harry has a mind to tell Louis about it when he sees him at dinner—and then he remembers all over again. He goes back to his tower that evening after dinner with his mind full of questions.

The Yule Ball creeps closer and closer. The scandals begin when the dance is just a week away, after Louis has been gone for a week. One frozen morning at a Quidditch match, the last before the Christmas break, a sixth year girl named Sangster marches down to the pitch, robes swirling out behind her in what Harry had to admit is an impressive spectacle, her long dark hair taken by the wind and flying like a flag. She casts a spell into the air before anyone has the chance to stop her, a bolt of purple light shooting from the end of her wand and hitting one of the Hufflepuff chasers, another girl named Kinley. Her broom shakes manically before slowing to a stop and shooting downward, dumping her off of it as soon as it’s within three feet of the ground.

The shouting is tremendous. Niall and Liam have to break them up, Liam taking Sangster back to the castle, Niall standing with an arm around Kinley. Harry’s higher up in the stands, but from what he can tell, Kinley had agreed to go to the Ball with another girl rather than Sangster. Messy business, that. Harry wants to tell Louis, but Zayn is the person on his right, not Louis because he’s _gone_ and it’s like a punch to the gut every time he has to admit that. He can still smile and discuss it with the lads, but it smarts all the while and it just doesn’t feel the same. Nothing will, Harry imagines, until Louis returns.

Still, life—and love—goes on. The amount of snogging certainly increases in the days leading up to the Yule Ball, students seemingly everywhere, in places Harry has to give them credit for: in plain sight, against statues, behind tapestries covering hidden corridors, in aisles in the library, in lavatories, even in Trelawney’s tower, which Harry finds both odd and fascinating, thankful his tower has yet to be invaded. Christmas might be the holiday two weeks away, but it’s love that’s in the air and, as much as he encourages the exploration of sexuality and budding romance, it’s starting to get on his nerves.

“ _Ugh_ ,” he groans as he, Niall, and Zayn pass another couple snogging where they think no one will see them behind some bushes along the path, “can they do that anywhere else? Like the Forbidden Forest, maybe? Or the bottom of the lake?”

Both Zayn and Niall shoot him surprised looks. “What crawled up yer arse and died?” Niall asks bluntly.

“My holiday spirit,” Harry cracks back. “Along with my will to live.”

Zayn wraps an arm around him supportively. “Oh, come on. He’ll be back any day now and then you’ll be right as rain again.”  

Harry nods, but he’s not sure if he believes it. Louis hasn’t sent any more letters and Harry finally sent Pleiades off to stay with him, in the hopes of encouraging some kind of communication, as well as in what Harry hoped was a comforting gesture. Merlin knew the two of them got on better than he did, and Harry’d been her friend since he was a first year.

One evening, Niall comes to his tower with a bottle of firewhisky smuggled under his robes and a mischievous grin on his face. Surprisingly, Zayn and Liam are not in tow.

“What’s all this?” Harry asks when he discovers Niall has also brought a basket stuffed full of absolute rubbish food, pumpkin pasties and candy, as well as some from the Muggle world back home, including Wotsits and Jaffa Cakes.

“This is a care package courtesy of Saint Niall,” he says. “Now, you gonna let me in, or am I just gonna camp out here at the bottom of your stairs?”

Unfortunately, no electronics work on the grounds of Hogwarts; if they did, Harry’s sure Niall would have brought along his console and FIFA for them to play. Instead, he sneaks up two broomsticks from the shed, calling them out with _Accio_ from the balcony of Harry’s tower. “It’s okay,” he says, grinning, when Harry flashes him a look of alarm. “I left it unlocked.”

Harry bundles up in some warmer clothes, lending Niall a jumper and a scarf he’s knitted, before they hover into the air. They fly in lazy circles around Harry’s tower, the air cold and the light of the moon bright, the entire landscape below them a chilling pattern of silver and shadows. They play a game of tossing each other snacks back and forth, but Niall's much better at catching than Harry; Harry imagines Hagrid finding their Jaffa Cakes and pumpkin pasties littered on the ground later that day and almost falls off his broom, he laughs so hard.

They eventually land on the tiled roof of Harry’s tower, holding hands to make sure neither of them fall to their deaths, and they spend the next few hours nearly pissing themselves laughing as they reminisce, passing the bottle of firewhisky back and forth and throwing snacks at each other, afraid to eat any more lest they puke. It feels just like old times to Harry and he can’t help thinking, his head whirling, that this is precisely what he needed. _And of course Niall knew that._

“Thanks, Niall,” he says, his words slurred. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Niall says from beside him, laughing.

“Oh, shut up. I’m trying to tell you I love you, you idiot.”

“I know that, too!” Niall reaches over, clumsily ruffling Harry’s curls. “I love yeh too, you daft bastard.”

When they manage to fly their ungainly selves back down, listing and lilting the entire time, Harry’s head, though a bit drunk, feels clearer than it has in days. Trust Niall to be able to patch him up with a few hours of harmless stupidity. He watches Niall send the brooms back with an exaggerated whisper, drinking the last of the whisky when Harry declines. Niall Vanishes the bottle and then salutes Harry unsteadily.

“Well, I should probably go, I’ve got to let the Gryffindors into the pitch in a few hours.”

“Hey,” Harry says quickly, grabbing Niall by the fabric over his shoulder. “I’m serious, you’re my best friend.”

“Mine, too.” Niall reaches for him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders; Harry tucks his face into the crook of Niall’s neck where it meets his shoulder, hugging him back just as warmly. He’s so grateful, so lucky, to have Niall in his life. They all are.

Niall kisses the side of Harry’s face by his eye, missing his cheek entirely. “Night, H. Get some sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah, you too.”

Harry watches him go, stumbling down the spiral staircase, and he lets out a breath. Niall makes everything better, everything more clear; he inspires a confidence and serenity that Harry’s always appreciated. Now, he knows he can do this. No matter how long it takes Louis to come back to him, he can manage; all he has to do is keep wishing on that same star every night, and eventually, it’ll come true.

He gets his wish just two days before the Yule Ball as he’s curled up in front of the fire in his office, flipping through the newest compendium of current events in Astronomy. He’s just thinking he’ll have an egg toddy and go to sleep when there’s a knock on his door. He hardly has the time to get up to answer it; the knob turns and it opens and—there’s Louis. Just like that, 

Harry’s heart pirouettes in his chest and his breath is taken away. _Louis_. He looks exhausted, dark circles fierce beneath his bloodshot eyes, and there is a heaviness hanging over him that wasn’t there when he left, but when he sees Harry he still manages a small smile.

“Hi,” he says softly. “I was worried you might be asleep.”

Harry shakes his head. He’s standing there, holding the book loosely, wearing a jumper that Louis left behind that’s a size too small for him but it’s warm and smells of his Louis, so he loves it. Wearing it before bed is the only way he gets any sleep lately.

He just stares at Louis, wondering if perhaps this is all a dream and he’s actually sleeping slumped over his book in his chair. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure where to begin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write more,” Louis says, shaking his head. He drags his trunk in behind him and Harry notices the traveling cloak he’s wearing, as well as the Slytherin scarf still wrapped around his neck. _He hasn’t even dropped off his things_ , Harry thinks, dumbstruck. _He came to me first._

“It’s all right—”

“I did try,” Louis says, as though Harry hasn’t spoken. There’s a dazed look in his tear-bright eyes and Harry has a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach. “But Pleiades wouldn’t take them. She wouldn’t leave me. Even when I was at the hospital, she stayed outside. It was…maddening, really. She shouldn’t have done that.” He looks at Harry, frowning. “Was that just her, do you think? Or was that a bit of you, too?”

“Me too, I think,” Harry says quietly. “We were both worried.” Very slowly, Harry closes the book and sets it down on his end table.

Louis unwinds his scarf.

He lets Louis strip him fiercely, tearing clothes and flinging them about the room. He lets Louis fuck him in his own armchair, punishing and rough and hard, Louis’ eyes wild with need, his teeth clenched as he drills into Harry mercilessly, faster and faster, until Harry is practically sobbing, begging to come, body wound taught like a bowstring. Louis finally lets him, gives him permission, and watches Harry shoot helplessly over his own stomach, moaning Louis’ name. Louis doesn’t, and when he looks at Harry with those distraught eyes, Harry recognizes what’s going through him and he takes over.

He takes Louis deep into his mouth until he’s on the verge of choking, working him with his tongue and lips, gripping him tight with one hand, head bobbing rhythmically, fast and slow, licking him from base to head tantalizingly, tapping the head on his tongue and smearing the pre-come on his mouth. Louis fists a hand in his hair and comes without much warning, just a hitch of breath and a muttered _fuck_. Harry swallows him all the way down, ignoring the sore throat and the bruises forming as he watches some of that desperation fade from Louis’ eyes. He deflates after that, exhaustion prevailing. Harry carries him to his bed.

Louis wakes him in the middle of the night with his mouth on Harry’s dick and this time, it’s soft and slow, Harry on top and riding him steadily, two of their hands threaded together. Harry bends to kiss Louis into the pillows, to run his free hand through his hair, to touch his face, his neck, to let him know he’s _there_ and he’s not leaving, he never will. Their gazes never waver. Louis jerks him evenly in time with his thrusts and Harry comes into his hand, biting his lip to stifle his shout. Harry drags his fingers through it, making a mess of Louis’ stomach, but neither of them care; he brings two fingers to his mouth and sucks hard, pushing Louis over the edge, crying out as he finishes. Harry kisses him, cupping his cheeks with Louis still inside him, Harry’s name on his lips.

Louis climbs back in bed with him after throwing away the condom, snuggling in close to Harry’s side. Harry winces, hissing at the feeling of Louis’ cold feet against his thighs, but he rubs them anyway. 

There’s silence, nothing but the distant hooting of an owl, probably Pleiades hunting along the grounds, and the ticking of Harry’s clock above the mantel. Everything is steady, humming, waiting.

“Do you ever…” Louis begins in a whisper, licking his lips. “Do you ever feel like you just don’t belong somewhere?”

Harry rolls over to look at Louis. “What do you mean?”

“Like no matter how hard you try, how much you give, you’re never going to be a part of something—with someone?”

Harry tenses. He thinks he knows exactly where this is going, and it kills him. Maybe he knew it as soon as he saw Louis come in with his scarf and his luggage and his tired eyes, but he doesn’t _want_ to know it, he doesn’t want it to be a thing that exists because he doesn’t want Louis to feel that way, ever. Nobody should ever make someone else feel that way.

“Louis?” Harry’s words come out slowly, as though they’re afraid to. “What happened in London?”

He waits, expectant, for Louis to say it aloud. It’s like thunder: any minute now, the rain will come.

“I’m gay,” he says. “I’m gay and a wizard, and they can’t stand it.”

There’s silence for such a long time after that, that Harry thinks maybe Louis fell asleep, but then he feels Louis’ smaller body shaking beside him and he hears the sharp intake of breath and he knows, no, he is not asleep, not at all. Harry gathers him up in his arms and holds him while he cries, holds him with his lips pressed to Louis’ hair, telling him over and over that he’s got him and that it’s all going to be all right.

* * *

They stay in bed all the next day.

As soon as Pleiades comes back from hunting, Harry slips out of bed, unwrapping himself from Louis, and scribbles a note to McGonagall. He knows it’s terrible timing with the castle on the verge of the biggest event of the year, but he needs a personal day. Louis, too. A note comes back moments later saying that he has the day off, but if he could see fit to still give his sixth years and second years their midterms that evening, she would appreciate it. He agrees and the day is theirs.

“You should have gone home,” Harry says when Louis is awake and sprawled out next to him. It’s mid-morning and they woke to find a buffet table in Harry’s office and all of their thrown-about clothes cleaned and folded in neat piles on his desk. House elves are a blessing.

“I mean, not that I don’t want you here,” Harry says around a mouthful of crepe, “of course I do. But—”

Louis shakes his head. “McGonagall said the same thing. She wanted me to take off for Christmas break early, but  I…I dunno. I wanted to see the kids and finish out the semester. Besides…” He runs a hand over his sleep-and-sex-wild hair. “I needed to get away from all that for a while.”

Harry sets his plate down on the bedside table and curls in next to Louis, facing him across the pillows. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Louis nods jerkily, his eyes still swollen, his cheeks blotchy. “Expect I should. I just…I don’t know why I keep letting them get to me? I _know_ how terrible my dad’s side of the family can be, I know, and it’s like…What’s that saying about stupidity? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?” He laughs morosely, biting into his toast. “I feel like such a fucking _idiot_.”

“Hey, no, don’t,” Harry says as Louis’ eyes fill with tears again.

It comes and goes like this in waves, the way things often do in the wake of emotional turbulence. Harry found out early that morning that Louis’ dad was hardly the trouble they made it out to be, only minorly injuring his foot in a boating accident. When he tried to leave early, however, they guilted him into staying around until his dad was better again, putting on such a show of dramatics that it was all Louis could do to keep from screaming at them. “And the things they _said_ ,” Louis said, shaking his head, “I don’t understand how people can be so ignorant. I just _don’t_.”

And yet, even the most stalwart of people can crack under the strain of words and their implications, whether one believes them or not. Family is supposed to love and cherish, not try their damnedest to hurt and mock.

So throughout the day, Louis cries and Harry pets and they both nap, dozing to the sounds of Pleiades snoring quietly and voices distantly echoing from students already finished with their midterms sledding outside in the snowbanks. They eat sporadically and have sex once more and Harry manages to convince Louis to shower; he washes his hair for him and sucks him off and bundles him up, drying the water beaded on his skin, before they clamber back into bed, the fire built large, the room sumptuously warm.

“I wish you would have said something,” Harry murmurs as they’re dozing again, one long finger stroking between Louis’ eyes, down to the tip of his nose. “I would’ve Apparated to London from Hogsmeade. I could’ve…I dunno, just been there with you.”

Louis frowns, his skin creasing beneath Harry’s finger. “I couldn’t ask you to do that, Haz, it was—”

“But you’re _supposed to_ ,” he says, almost exasperated. “That’s what people do—” _In relationships._ “That’s what people do,” he finishes lamely.

“That’s what people do,” Louis repeats softly, exhaling. He’s on the verge of sleep, Harry can feel it.

A wave of emotion suddenly hits Harry’s chest and he realizes all at once: This is the moment. His heart is ready to deploy and it’s now or never. _Finally_ , he thinks, _finally, it’s time._ After all, he was robbed of it before; he doesn’t plan on it happening again.

“Besides,” Harry says, tapping Louis’ nose gently. “You left before I could tell you.”

“Mm. What’s that?”

“I love you.” _No, not quite right._ “I’m in love with you.” Nothing has ever been easier for Harry to say, no hesitation, no more fear. The words fall from his lips like rain, like stars.

There’s a weighty pause before Louis opens his eyes. Most traces of sleep are gone now as he raises himself slightly from the pillow, looking quite seriously at Harry, as if he’s afraid he misheard him. “You're in love with me,” he says.

“Hopelessly. Since the moment I crashed into you, since the moment you fell at my feet. I think…” He shrugs. “I honestly think we’re meant to be together.”

“I love you, too, Harry,” Louis says. “I love you more than—” He shakes his head, mouth opening and closing, as though he can’t find the words. Louis sits up. “Um. Would you mind holding that thought, just for a moment? I have to…” He trails off, throwing the blankets off and scrambling out of bed. Harry watches him go, stunned, as he disappears from Harry’s flat. He hears rummaging around in his office, a quiet bang, and Louis cursing.

“Everything all right?” he calls, leaning up against the headboard. _This is the oddest conversation I’ve ever been a part of, besides that time I had to explain to Niall that a creampie is_ not _just as a delicious American snack._

“Yeah,” Louis yells back. He runs in from the other room clutching a handful of envelopes wrapped with a string. “I just wanted to grab these.” He jumps back into bed, the mattress bouncing as he covers himself up, dumping the envelopes in Harry’s lap. “The letters I wrote you. I thought…I dunno, I figured I could hold onto them, that you’d want to read them at some point.”

Harry wants very much to do that, and he pulls the string. Before he can, however, Louis stops him with a gentle hand. “Not just yet. I want you to do it alone, when I’m not here with these…expectations, I guess. That way, there’s no weird pressure or anything.” Harry’s about to ask what he could mean, but Louis shakes his head. “It’s the right decision, I think. You’ve got your midterms to give tonight, and I should probably go, too.”

“And I know what you’re going to say,” he says as soon as Harry opens his mouth to protest, “I shouldn’t. But I honestly believe that work will be the best thing for me right now.” He smiles faintly. “Besides you, of course.”

Louis slides back out of bed and gets dressed, Harry watching him, hands burning with the desire to rip open the first letter and devour it. But he waits, because Louis wants him to. If he was anyone else, he might have felt cheated that Louis had shortened his moment to something else, but he's not anyone else. He's Harry, and he knows Louis so well now, feeling as though there's a part of him that always has, maybe throughout all of time itself. Clearly, Louis has something to say to him, something  _more_ , and it's all so overwhelming that there's just the one way he knows how. And that's okay with Harry. That's okay because he loves him and supports him in every regard, and he knows that if it wasn't important, Louis wouldn't have asked.

When Louis is ready to go, he stands in the middle of the room, looking at Harry. “Haz, can I ask you something?”

Harry nods.

“Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?”

Harry’s heard it so much from students in passing conversation in the past few weeks, their voices either timid or far too confident, each betraying their nervousness, their fear of rejection, but he didn’t imagine he would receive a similar offer. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect to go with Louis; he did. But then Louis left and he wasn’t even sure he’d be back in time. Harry had gotten used to the idea of them not going and besides, they worked together. It wasn’t allowed.

But looking at him now, no trace of nervousness in his voice, just curiosity, Harry doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a damn that they work together and that they shouldn’t, because he’s in love with Louis and Louis is in love with him and he wants everyone to know it.

Still, he has to wonder if this _is_ the right thing. “Are you sure?” he asks. Truly, he’s asking a different question.

Louis, of course, understands. They’ve always shared a connection through time and space but never really realized it, not until now. Finally, Harry can say he gets a full read on Louis the moment their eyes lock. Finally, he can say he knows every thought going on behind those eyes, that he can read every emotion on Louis’ face. 

Louis nods. “I’m sure.” It’s going to keep hurting because that’s what happens when people let you down, but there’s only one way to keep moving and that’s to put one foot in front of the other. Baby steps, one at a time.

“Okay. I’ll see you at breakfast?”

Louis nods, hands in his pockets. His smiles get a little bit wider each time. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

Harry reads through most of the letters that night while he’s waiting for his students to take their tests. He grades them on the spot so they all know whether or not they’ve passed, and he’s thrilled with their scores; nearly all of them pass with flying colors. The ones that don’t he writes down in his notes for Professor Sinistra, as they’ll need to talk to her when she returns about possible tutoring. The very thought of all that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and he has to lie down in between classes.

The letters themselves are the standard of what Harry thought they would be. Their barely coherent babblings about everything, from the weather in London, to the hideous food served on the guest floor of the Muggle hospital, as well as a number of other patients Louis saw admitted there. He talked about his family sparsely, only going on to say he wish he hadn’t left Hogwarts, changing the subject quickly to ask after Gemma and Eleanor, and how Harry’s classes were going.

The ones Harry doesn’t get to he tackles the next day. It’s the day of the Yule Ball, a bright, freezing Saturday, and everyone is abuzz, especially because Louis is back at the staff table. Everyone gives him a round of applause over porridge and the Slytherin table cheers the loudest. Privately, of course, at the staff table they all offer him their well wishes that he’s back, Greg James and Neville Longbottom among the first after the lads do it themselves.

“We’re so glad you’re back, Tommo,” Niall says, clasping his arm, “it just wasn’t the same without you. Yeh’ll be all right here, with us.”

If Harry thought Halloween was bad, the chaos surrounding the Yule Ball is even worse. There are staff members and workers _everywhere_ after breakfast putting the finishing touches on the Great Hall: Niall levitates the antlered-chandelier up to the ceiling with Greg’s help, while McGonagall dictates at the front of the enormous chamber, pointing and instructing, occasionally leaving her post at the staff dais to sort out some trouble or other, all with a steely glint in her eye. Zayn is hanging up House banners he’s painted in a variety of wintry themes, as well as streamers, while Liam enchants some snowmen not only to never melt, but also to hold platters of food and drinks. There are magnificent ice sculptures of centaurs and hippogriffs, mermaids and house elves, all to commemorate Harry Potter and his adventures at their beloved institution. In between setting up tables and chairs, and sending hasty notes to the middleman between him and the band he hired for the ball, Harry continues on with Louis’ letters.

He doesn’t mention his father until later. These were the letters Harry could tell were written in the middle of the night by a single candle. His quill must have been all over that parchment, the ink smeared in some places from the swiftness of his hand. He talked about how his dad was really milking this injury, and then went on to mention one or two of the only good memories he had with him. He confessed he hadn’t seen his dad in so long that he’d forgotten what his laugh sounded like. He pondered, wondering if that was a bad thing.

The next one is simple, just three sentences, not even signed: _This place is a joke. I can’t believe I left to come to_ this. _Everything’s terrible._

There are only three left after that, but Liam calls Harry’s name and he hasn’t the time, stuffing them back into his pocket and running off.

They finish just two hours or so before the ball is set to begin, and Harry leaves the band he acquired to rehearse quickly. He hurries from the Great Hall all the way up to his tower, one hand in his pocket, running his fingers over the worn parchment, eager to finish the last letters before the ball starts and he has to go collect Louis downstairs.

The next one tears at Harry’s heart when he unfolds it and reads it in his office. It’s all about Louis’ mum and his sisters, and how much he appreciates them and loves them, and how he wishes things could be different between him and his dad’s side of the family. Inside those words is a sad boy and it makes Harry’s throat ache when his eyes move over the line _But I’m going to be different, I promised myself that; I’m going to be there for the girls and Mum, and I’ll always take care of them, no matter what._

“But who’s supposed to take care of you?” Harry whispers, rubbing a hand over his face when he’s done.

The next one is even harder. It was the last straw for Louis by then and it’s a smeared mess, tear drops scattering the words in running sentences. _I’ve never known someone could feel such utter hatred, but it’s here in these people and I can’t_ believe _they virtually tricked me into coming here for, for what? So they could sling their insults at me? It’s no wonder it took me such a long time to come out, do they have any idea what this feels like? Why would anyone want to inflict this much pain on someone just because they’re different? And my dad doesn’t do a thing to stop it, I think it’s because he feels the same…_

It’s so much, so sharp and too close to the surface, that Harry has to stop, that he has to cry into his hands for a little while because he feels every ounce of Louis’ pain, every miniscule bit of his anger. Their lives and hearts are so entangled that if Louis were to prick his finger, Harry is almost certain he would feel it, just as his heart is spinning, wrapped in its own mire of frustration right alongside Louis’. He wants to go to him, wants to comfort him all over again, but he knows that this is different for everyone. If Louis wants to pick himself up, then Harry will be there beside him, offering his hand.

The third one Harry reads as he’s getting ready for the ball, pulling on his dress robes arm by arm, switching the letter from hand to hand. This one, he knows, was written just before Louis left. The entire tone is different.

_I had this dream, Haz. I know it sounds crazy—but I had this dream and my nan was there. It was summer because I could smell the flowers outside in her yard. We were sitting on her couch watching the telly like we used to when I was a kid (come to think of it, I was a kid, I was wearing these little knickerbockers), and I dropped my ice lolly and started crying, I was so upset. I thought she was going to get angry, but instead she put her hand on my knee to pat it like she used to and she told me, “Louis, it’s just an ice lolly.” Like everything was okay. Like nothing was wrong. And I think that…I know this sounds odd, but I think she was trying to tell me something in the dream, that none of it matters, that I never even have to dwell on it because in the grand scheme of things, it’s not important. It’s just an ice lolly. _

_Maybe that’s crazy. Maybe_ I’m _crazy. I can’t explain it, it’s just this feeling that I have, but I know it to be true. I’m sitting here in this room in my uncle’s house, I should be packing, but I just had to write this all down, you know? I needed to tell you. And isn’t that what’s amazing here? The dream made me realize, Haz, it made me realize that life is…it’s fleeting and precious and I have to do everything in my power to make it better every day. It's so easy to feel inadequate, but why should I waste my time, my thoughts and emotions on these people? I did what I came here to do, I saw my dad, I made sure he’s okay, and that’s it. I shouldn’t have to spare any of them another moment of my life. I can’t let make me feel bad for things I can’t change. I ought to be happy and celebrate life and all its little things. I can’t be afraid to do anything, or else I’ll miss it. Being here just made me realize how much I need to have the best life to prove them wrong; I want to enjoy everything about my life. I want to DO things, I want to…I want to keep teaching and I want to be in love and have fun and I want to marry you, Harry, not just because it rhymes but because I LOVE YOU, Harry, I love you more than anything else on this earth. I'm sorry it took me so long to say and I'm sorry I'm not saying it in person now, but if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. _

_Fuck them. They’re nothing more to me than rocks in space, but you, Harry, you’re a supernova burning through me. You’re a star and together, we’re going to shine._

_I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll see you soon._

_xxxxx, Lou_

Harry isn’t sure how long he sits there holding the letter in one hand, his heartbeat clanging around so loudly in his chest that he’s sure even the basements of Hogwarts can hear its klaxon going off, _needing_ to be heard by everyone around. His chest hurts. He wants to catch Louis around the waist and hold him forever because he _loves Harry_ , loves him more than tea, than Quidditch, than Transfiguration, in the same way that Harry loves Louis more than knitting and cats and the stars peppering the night sky, he loves him more fully than the number of galaxies that encompass space, and he’ll love him longer than it takes for them all to burn out and fade away.

Harry’s glad Louis gave him the letters. He had a hard time summing it up the evening before, tripping over his words, maybe afraid that all this pouring out would someone spook Harry away. He loves Harry, yes, but there’s so much more to say and he lost his head. But doesn’t Louis know? Harry is in this for life now. Finally, now, Harry knows everything and he understands.

 _I love you more than anything else on this earth_.

He runs his hands through his hair, trying to tame the curls as much as he can, before tying his hair up with the last, best scarf of term. A string of golden stars dangles from one of his earlobes, glittering in the candlelight. With the last letter tucked in his pocket like a good luck charm, he’s ready.

If he thought the noise on the first night of term was extreme, it’s nothing compared to now. From all the way up in his tower, Harry can hear shouts and laughter, music and the joyful shrieking of students. He smiles as he descends. They deserve this night more than any of them; they’ve all worked so hard. He finds there’s something bittersweet in it, in every one of his movements, in the very beating of his heart. He’s going to miss this place, probably for the rest of his entire, love-stricken life.

His heartbeat escalates the closer he gets to the first floor and by the time he’s there, his mouth is dry and he’s trembling. He adjusts his robes outside of Louis’ door, fiddling with the ends of his curls, checking his breath. When he’s sure he’s ready, he raises a hand and knocks gently with one knuckle.

There’s a murmur of assent from within. Harry takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Louis is standing at one of the desks, his back to Harry. He’s looking down at something, a book maybe, the sound of pages turning reaching Harry as he steps inside.

Without a word, Harry crosses the labyrinth of desks to where Louis is standing and wraps his arms around his waist, pressing his cheek to the top of Louis’ shoulder. Louis stands up a little straighter to push them closer together and he sighs contentedly, turning his head ever so slightly so that their cheeks are touching.

“I thought it was you,” Louis says. He smiles, a flash of teeth that’s gone in an instant. “Well, I hoped it was, anyway.”

Harry presses a kiss to the side of Louis’ head just above his ear. “It’s always me.” Regretfully, he unwinds his arms, stepping back. “Louis…your _robes_.”

They are the most magnificent that Harry has ever seen. They are a dark midnight blue, his cuffs lined exquisitely in bright silver thread. The inside lining is patterned with snowflakes that are encrusted with glitter.

He looks down at himself, grinning. “Do you like them? I thought, for the holiday, y’know? Best not to get anything spangled, though, I thought that might—” He breaks off when he looks up, taking in Harry’s own dress robes. His mouth drops open.

Harry’s are an inky black interspersed with liberal amounts of silver glitter in some places. However, it’s not _all_ silver glitter.

Louis narrows his eyes, bending to look at them more closely. “Harry, are your robes—”

“—changing colors to make nebulae out of millions of bits of glitter? Yes,” he says proudly, “yes, they are. Niall helped me and so did Zayn, but I did some of the Transfiguration myself as well. What do you think?”

“Harry, they’re _breathtaking,_ what an extraordinary piece of magic!” He stoops to see what nebula is down by Harry’s knee. “What’s that, the—”

“Helix Nebula. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Your mind is astonishing.” He stands back up, grinning. “I could spend a hundred lifetimes with you and never get bored. You are the best person I’ve ever known.”

Harry reaches a hand into his pocket, stroking the letter. “I read them. Your letters, I mean. I finished them all.”

Louis raises his eyebrows and lets out a long breath. “Yeah?”

Harry shakes his head. “Why’d you want me to read it first? Why not just say something?”

Louis nods too, like it’s a good question and he’s glad Harry asked in that teacherly way of his. “I guess…” He shrugs. “I guess as a last disclaimer. To let you know that yeah, I took off and I didn’t write because life is complicated and weird and dark sometimes, and that if you wanted an out now, this is where you could take it. But if you got to that last letter, you would at least know how I felt and…hopefully stay.”

“Louis.” If Harry could shake his head at him for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t be enough. “Are you _thick_? In what universe would I ever want to bow out on you?”

There’s a split-second pause before Louis’ face breaks out in the widest, brightest grin Harry’s seen since he left. “Good. That was pretty much what I hoped you’d say.”

“You’re so _weird_ ,” Harry says, crooking an arm around Louis’ neck and pulling him in for a kiss. “Absolutely out of your mind.”

“I love you, Harry Styles,” Louis says, covering Harry’s face in kisses, “I’m in love with you, I adore you, and I want to marry you.”

Harry smiles, laughing, breathless and the happiest he’s ever been. “When?”

“Today. Tomorrow? Every day!” Louis looks him directly in the eyes, cupping his cheeks. “It was always meant to be, don’t you think?”

“Without a doubt.” Still, unable to help himself, Harry reaches out and lightly strokes one of Louis’ cheekbones. “And you’re all right, aren’t you?” They've been there before separately, but now they have each other. They don't need to be those scared kids anymore, wondering what people will think. 

The vividness of Louis’ smile dims somewhat and Harry can see it there behind his eyes, the hurt and the anger, can see it in the edge of his lips, but Louis nods anyway. “Getting there,” he says, his voice strong. “Every day’s a journey and all that.”

“Of course. And I’ll be right alongside you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up about leaving then, Haz. You’re stuck with me.”

Harry clutches his chest. “How will I ever survive?”

The clock on Louis’ wall strikes seven at that moment and Harry’s reminded all at once of the Yule Ball. They both look at the clock and back at each other, their movements a perfect mirror.

“Shit,” Louis says calmly, as though they’re discussing different types of fertilization in Herbology (and let’s face it, Harry would only ever use dragon dung). “We’re running a bit late, aren’t we?”

Harry shrugs, smiling softly. “Just a bit.” 

“Well, then!” Louis bows elegantly. “Harold Styles, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to the ball?” 

Harry laughs, curtsying clumsily. The glitter on his robes changes to a giant blossom of dark red, becoming the Rosette Nebula. “You may.”

“Excellent.” Louis stands, offering Harry his arm. “Let’s crack on, then!”

The Yule Ball is already in full swing when they arrive. The Great Hall has been turned into a winter wonderland: the floor has been magicked into appearing as though it’s ice and little puffs of snow are falling gently from the enchanted ceiling, though as far as Harry can tell, holding one hand out to catch some, it’s warm. In one half of the room, there are a number of round tables bedecked in icy blue tablecloths, each topped with centerpieces of blue roses. To the left, stretched along one wide wall, are tables dazzling in shades silver and platinum; spread along them are the ice statues that Harry saw earlier that day. They’re covered in nibbles and little stone fountains filled with cold drinks for students and staff alike to dip their goblets into. Niall is over there, of course, chatting amiably to Greg and Liam; Zayn, so far, is nowhere to be found.

Rather than the staff table, the dais at the front of the room has now been converted into a makeshift stage and a band is there, performing before the large crowd; a banner stretches behind them, words rippling across it in dark font: _CIRCE NIGHTSHADE AND THE SIRENS_ , it reads like a marquee, the words disappearing. _HAPPY CHRISTMAS, HOGWARTS!_ That half of the room has been, of course, converted into a dancefloor and it is the most crowded area, Circe playing the hit song “I Put A Spell On You”, a great number of students thrashing about, dancing enthusiastically.

“Wow,” Louis says, looking up. Silver candles levitate above them beside the chandelier, strung festively in holly and mistletoe in equal parts, along with silver streamers and what look to be _real_ icicles. “This is so incredible, you all worked so hard.”

Greg notices them lingering by the doorway and shouts, waving them over. They worm their way through the crowds of wallflowers hanging about in circles, joining their three friends happily. Greg is adorable, of course, in a sky blue set of robes hemmed in faux white fur, just like Saint Nicholas. Beside him, Niall looks just as merry as the professor of Muggle Studies, but of course, as patriotic as ever in vivid kelly green with gold, his hems striped in gold. There is a sprig of holly tucked behind each of his ears and when he catches sight of Harry and his one glimmering earring, he laughs, flicking it playfully.

“Nice touch, mate,” he says.

Liam is resplendent in crimson robes with black braiding along the shoulders and hems, the lining a rich black fur. His hands are bound in black leather gloves and he looks as warm as Harry feels, standing beside Louis, one arm around his slender waist.

They all welcome Louis back with the hugs and affection they couldn’t lavish on him that morning at breakfast, and Harry is astonished to see the look of genuine surprise on his face, as though they hadn’t all been counting the days until his return. He thanks them all earnestly and Harry can only marvel, watching him. Louis can be silly when he wants and over the top in the most fun ways, but he really is so humble and unassuming that it takes Harry aback. Has there ever been a more magical man than his? 

Liam dashes off to fetch them some punch that he’s happily agreed to spike with rum for them, and Zayn finally arrives. Greg, who was in the middle of a delightful story involving a spell in a lift gone awry, stops midway through a sentence when everyone else stops paying attention to him, utterly spellbound by Zayn’s arrival. His protest vanishes the moment he sees him as well.

Zayn is, of course, always beautiful, but now in particular he is stunning. His dress robes are a deep, rich plum, the hems lined in a vibrant blue, the cuffs around his wrists gold and silver lace that curl back into threaded whorls. Upon closer inspection, Harry can see the swirls form the shape of dragons, their mouths open wide and spouting flame.

“Whoa,” Niall says first. Zayn beams at him.

“Yeah,” Louis follows. “Pullin’ out all the stops, eh, Zayn?”

He shrugs easily. “May as well, right? Like, go hard before goin’ on holiday. Besides," he grins, "told you purple looks better on me."

Harry rolls his eyes as Greg salutes him, raising his goblet. "Well said. By the way, Harry, great choice with Circe, she’s brilliant.”

Harry smiles. “It’s all thanks to you, man!”

They chat music for a while before the conversation invariably turns to their students and who passed what, who didn’t, etc. Just then, Liam returns with his arms full of goblets and a proper lecture about them shutting up for _five seconds_ about their jobs and could they please try and _enjoy_ themselves, so, as solemnly as they can, they agree.

“A toast,” Greg says suddenly, holding up his goblet. “To you lot and the magic of the holidays. You’re all brilliant and I’m so glad I know you. Cheers.”

They all murmur _cheers_ , clanking their goblets together, and Harry’s stomach tumbles, his chest aching, as he realizes: These are his friends. These are the people he wants in his life, the people he wants surrounding him all the time with their laughter and their love, and he thinks that this, _this_ is where he belongs. He came to Hogwarts looking for a job, for a soulmate, and he found those, both of which are nothing to sneeze at. But he also found his place in these people beside him right now, and if that isn’t true magic, he doesn’t know what is.

Harry and Louis make the rounds after that, never far from each other for more than a moment. They chat for a while with McGonagall and Slughorn before he goes whirling off across the dancefloor with a heavily intoxicated Trelawney; they listen to Niall tell some of his favorite Quidditch stories, Louis jumping in eagerly, the two of them bickering playfully before long as they’re wont to do; and they even dance with one or two of their students, though it is, of course, kept as friendly as possible. Most of the offers for Harry are from girls, to Louis’ unending amusement. The girl who asked him the most recently grins at him secretively like she knows.

When Harry finally leads her off the dancefloor in Louis’ direction, she starts to giggle. Harry isn’t sure what’s going on until Louis turns and stares at her, eyes narrowing. “Lottie, what _are_ you doing?”

There is a faint ringing in Harry’s head and he turns to her, shocked. “Wait, a minute, _Lottie_ Lottie?”

She grins and Harry can see the resemblance. He points at her and then points at Louis before back at her once more.

Louis nods sympathetically. “She does that.” He turns a rather withering gaze back on his younger sister. “But I’ll ask again, what was that?”

“Oh, that?” She pats at her curled hair nonchalantly. “Just dancing with your boyfriend.”

From beside Louis, Liam chokes on the biscuit shaped like a candy cane he’s eating. Louis reaches over, lazily flicking his wand in Liam’s direction; the piece he’s choking on is magically unstuck and leaves him wheezing, holding onto the table with one hand for support. “Boyfriend?”  he chokes out.

“I can see that,” Louis says to Lottie, as though absolutely nothing has just gone on, but Harry, he’s on fucking cloud nine, nothing else in the world compares because Lottie just called him Louis’ boyfriend and Louis all but agreed. Harry is floating away into the night sky, becoming magic and stardust all at once, because this, this right here, is the best moment of his life. He’s sure it’ll be succeeded, like maybe when he and Louis get married because they will of course, but he’ll always remember this moment because once, just once, it was the greatest feeling he’d ever known.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, “I’m so in love with you, it’s sickening.”

“Seconded,” Lottie says, nodding, “it is definitely sickening.” She smiles, looking at Louis fondly. “But nice. Really nice. Mum’s gonna lose it when she meets him, you know.”

Harry positively beams, glad that he’s passed the test of at least two of Louis’ family members. A thought strikes him and he realizes he’ll get to meet _more_ of them, everyone who’s important to Louis, and his knees go weak, he’s _that_ excited.

Liam raises his hands, turning to them. “Okay, clearly, I’ve missed something.”

Louis laughs out loud, shaking his head and Harry watches, mesmerized. He’s going to get the chance to sit and admire Louis for the rest of his life. It still hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

“Oh, Liam,” Louis says. “Poor, poor Liam.” He pats him on the cheek. “We’ll explain later. Until then…” Louis takes Harry’s hand and whisks him off into the crowd, Harry laughing as they spin madly through everyone.  

Of course, it isn’t for long; they seem to get stopped every few minutes or so. Harry gets sucked into a game of Exploding Snap with some of his fourth and fifth years, losing gracefully despite the blisters that pop up on the pads of his fingers from the cards burning in his grip. Louis kisses each of them gently and even if they still sting, he _does_ feel better, especially on his third goblet of rum punch. He cuts himself off after that, though, to Louis’ amazement.

Louis loves to drink. Harry can see a French vineyard in their future. “Why?” he asks.

“Because I want to remember this night for the rest of my life. And,” Harry says, waiting for a gaggle of fourth years to move past them, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “so I don’t pass out later before you fuck me.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at that, but he smiles indulgently. “Been waiting long, babe?”

Louis has never called him that before, not yet, and it shoots right through him. Harry practically groans aloud; Louis can be _such_ a tease. It’s only been a day but since Louis’ return, Harry feels him ever presently like an itch beneath his skin and he needs him nearby, needs him within reach, needs him against his skin, chests pressed together to feel their combined hearts racing for the finish line.

“Too long.”

“Well, a few more hours shouldn’t matter, then.”

Harry growls at him and Louis laughs. “If you can wait until then, I promise, we’ll do everything you want.” He tilts his head. “That is humanly within my power and capabilities.”

Harry raises his own eyebrows at that, the thought _very_ appealing. “Everything?”

“Everything.” Louis puts a hand on his chest, bowing slightly at the waist. “Your wish is my command.”

“All right, I’ll brainstorm.”

“In the meantime,” Louis says smoothly, holding out a hand, “Dance with me? Seeing as my sister’s already had a go at you and I haven’t, which is _completely_ unfair, by the way.”

Circe’s band has slowed down their soulful jams into calmer music, more songs to slow dance to as the night goes on. They’re playing a waltz right now, her upright bassist playing a cello instead, accompanied by a couple of other musicians Harry hired from the Edinburgh Magic Association of Classical Music. The energy in the hall has changed considerably, from one of frenetic laughter and wild desire, to soft contentment, warm fondness. 

“Let me make it up to you, then.” Harry puts his hand in Louis’. “I’d love to.”

There is a word for Harry’s dancing and it’s not necessarily _horrible,_ but it’s not exactly the highest praise, either. If he had to label it, it would be _careful_. He’s very precise in his movements, very intent on remembering the way he was taught all those years ago so he doesn’t step on Louis’ toes and make complete fools of them both.

“Hey,” Louis whispers a moment later. Harry looks up. “Stop concentrating so hard. It’s just you and me here.”

Except it isn’t, not really. Looking up, keeping his eyes glued to Louis’ face, he can tell that people are watching them, wondering if there is more to their dancing. He looks out, scanning the faces of the crowd a bit nervously, wondering if McGonagall is among them—when two fingers touch his chin, guiding his face back towards Louis’.

“They’re not here, okay? It’s just us.” Louis squeezes Harry’s hand. “I promise.”

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. They dance just a little bit closer and Harry feels the room fade away brick by brick, smiling face by smiling face, until it really is just them twirling on their own little patch of forever. Harry hums along with the song playing—it’s one of his favorites—and Louis picks it up, too, singing along softly as he spins Harry out and pulls him back in close to his chest.

“You’re quite a good dancer, you know,” Louis remarks pleasantly.

“I could be better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I could be like you.”

Louis smiles. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, the way you move…” Harry sighs dreamily. “You’re so graceful, Lou, I could watch you forever. It’s beautiful.”

Louis’s grin widens as though he takes that as some kind of challenge. They dance a bit faster, whirling around and around, the waltz picking up jauntily, the music swelling, and Harry’s robes are spinning out behind him wildly, the glitter changing quickly from the Cat’s Eye Nebula with its entwining circles surrounding an inner gleam; to the Crab Nebula, an explosion of vivid green and orange; to the Orion Nebula, sweeping wings in rainbow hues covering the entire right side of his body. Louis watches them with wonder, eyes reflecting the colors, his cheeks brushed a rosy red. Harry laughs aloud, closing his eyes.

The song slows, coming to an end, and as it does, Louis spins Harry and dips him backward. “How’s that?” he murmurs over the sounds of everyone’s gasps of delight beyond them.

“Top marks,” Harry says, grinning, his head light and spinning pleasantly when Louis pulls him back up.

To his astonishment, they _are_ the only people; it seems everyone moved off to clear space for them on the dancefloor. He looks around, heart thumping erratically in his chest, adrenaline pouring through him in happy streams. He looks at Louis, taking in his eyes crinkled at the corners and his cute little teeth gleaming from his wide smile and his dark blue robes swirling around his feet, the snowflakes in them shining, and Harry is seized by the moment. He surges forward, cupping Louis’ cheeks, and kisses him in front of everyone.

There is a moment of stunned silence before the dancefloor erupts into clapping and cheers. They break apart, looking around them happily. “Finally!” someone shouts and Harry blushes. Louis’ hand finds his and squeezes his fingers. He looks at Harry and raises his eyebrows, as if asking, _Should we?_ Harry nods fervently, thinking the exact same thing. Hands clasped, mouths kiss-reddened, they take a bow and the noise grows louder, spanning the entire hall and Harry realizes that their love is visible to everyone, that it has never been a secret, that’s it never been anything but a wonderful truth, an acknowledged certainty.

“Well,” a voice says from beside them. It’s McGonagall, wearing a glorious set of green and red tartan dress robes, a Tam o’ Shanter hat topped with a pom-pom sitting proudly on her head, an eagle feather plunged into it. “I suppose I should thank you. I just won a considerable amount of money from Horace.”

Harry blinks. “Erm. Headmistress?”

“Still, you couldn’t have sped it up a bit? The waiting nearly had dear Septima in fits.”

“But I thought—”

McGonagall looks at him with something like bemused pity. “Oh, Harry. You didn’t really think we still take that antiquated rule seriously, did you?” He’s still sputtering when she sighs dramatically. “Well, I’m certainly not one to look a gift unicorn in the mouth, am I? Carry on, you two—but move aside, if you please, if you’re not going to keep dancing. We’re due for a show here at the top of the hour.”

She sweeps away, searching for Professor Slughorn in the crowd. Harry looks at Louis, who is biting his lip so hard, Harry’s sure he’s going to hurt himself. Louis seizes his hand and yanks him away; soon enough, they’re running, sprinting through the hall. Some students flash them looks of alarm but others just whoop with them, cheering exuberantly and laughing, and Harry’s heart is beating in time to the music and the restless staccato of their footsteps as they burst out into the Entrance Hall.

Louis pulls him up a staircase to the second floor where the giggles begin in earnest. “Can you believe—” he manages, “— _McGonagall_ was betting on us?”

“Well, clearly, she has excellent taste,” Harry says and that sets them both off.

“You, though,” Louis says, pointing at Harry. “That was brilliant. Inspired, even.” Without waiting to regain his breath, he kisses Harry, hands tangling in Harry’s curls, tugging on them in the same way he does when Harry sucks him off and it instantly makes Harry’s knees quiver, his hands shaking as he grips Louis’ hips hard enough to leave marks, like words inscribed in a tree, _Harry was here_.

“What about—” Harry begins when they pull away, his breathing ragged.

“Fuck waiting,” Louis breathes, grabbing a fistful of Harry’s dress robes. The glitter around his hand turns a startling gold.

They stumble off down the hallway, stopping every few feet or so to kiss, to touch in some way, to just feel each other. Louis fumbles for the doorknob of what looks like a broom closet of some kind, twisting it and pushing it open. A yelp on the other side of it brings Harry out of his Louis reverie.

He is met by a tangle of limbs and robes as two people jump apart. When he sees who it is, Harry’s eyes widen. Zayn is pressed to the corner of the broom closet, robes disheveled, eyes bright. There is a curl to his mouth that resembles a smirk. Niall is standing in the middle of the tiny room, hands a flurry of movement as he tries to fix his robes and flatten his wild hair. His face is scarlet.

Nobody says a thing. Harry knows if he moves, he’s going to lose it.

Finally, Niall drops his hands to his hips, licking his lips. “Yeah?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Can we help you two with something?”

Louis still has a fistful of Harry’s robes and Harry’s arms are around Louis’ waist. They just look at each other, mouths open. Harry watches in slow-motion as Louis’ mouth widens, his eyes crinkling, and it comes bubbling up in Harry, too, before bursting out of both of them: Mad, delirious laughter.

“I knew it,” Louis howls with laughter, now clutching Harry for dear life as his body seems to go entirely slack, unable to hold itself up under the weight of such hilarity. “I fucking _knew it_!”

“That’s why your Patronuses changed,” Harry says delightedly, eyes streaming, “you’re fucking in _love_.”

“Oh, yeah?” Niall scowls at them. “Well, what about you dumb cunts?”

“But Niall,” Louis says, nearly weeping with laughter, "you don’t understand why this is so funny. I thought you were straight?”

Zayn, looking wholly proud of himself now, raises his arms and shrugs. “What can I say, lads?” That sets them off again. Niall glares at him but Zayn just wraps an arm around him and pulls him in to kiss his cheek with a loud smacking sound. “Oh, come on, Ni. It’s not so bad, like I told ya!”

“Oh, shut up,” Niall grumbles, but Harry can see him start to smile. Their eyes meet and Niall blushes, shrugging helplessly. Tomorrow before they leave for holiday, there’s going to be a _lot_ to talk about.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Zayn says, reaching for the door, “if you don’t mind, we’re just gonna—” He pushes on the door, nudging them out of the way before slamming it in their faces.

They just look at each other and go off again, yelping with laughter, Harry’s skin on fire, his cheeks aching. It takes them nearly fifteen entire minutes to calm down, by which point they’re so tired, they almost don’t have the energy for sex in some _other_ broom closet.

_Almost._

When they rejoin the festivities, it’s nearing midnight. Zayn and Niall are there, Niall missing his holly sprigs and looking flushed, Zayn’s eyes even sleepier and happier than before, if it’s possible. Harry winks at them as they sidle up beside them near the refreshment table again and Louis mimes giving a blowjob before Niall elbows him in the ribs, hard enough to cause him to wheeze when he laughs. Greg watches them, blithely bemused and unbothered, while Liam still looks as confused as ever. Harry doesn’t mind; breakfast is a time for food, for hangovers, and for explanations of the night before and he, for one, is looking forward to tomorrow’s. Neville appears within their group as well, smiling at the two of them.

“Congrats Harry, Louis,” he says, nodding. “Everyone could see that coming, I’m happy for you.”

Harry pulls Louis in closer to him, if that’s even possible. “Thanks, Neville. That means a lot.”

“What are we waiting for?” Louis asks.

“Oh, you don’t know? The fireworks. McGonagall got a special order from George Weasley.” He grins. “Should be brilliant.”

Of that, Harry is certain. His heart jumps in his chest as he realizes this is _it_. In all the delirium, he’d nearly forgotten. “Louis,” he says quietly enough that only Louis can hear him. “You know how your birthday is in a few days?”

“Yes, it’s rather difficult to forget,” he says dryly. “Why?”

“Well, I sort of got you a present a bit early.”

Louis’ eyes like up like a cat that’s just seen a mouse. “A present? Harry Styles,” he chides mildly. “I told you not to, it’s so close to Christmas that it’s useless—”

Harry claps a hand over Louis’ mouth gently. “Shh. You’re not allowed to complain.”

Louis makes a muffled sound, his breath warming the skin of Harry’s palm. It sounds like _“And why’s that?”_

“Because,” Harry says imperiously. “I love you, that’s why.”

Louis licks his palm and Harry makes a face at him, wiping his hand on his robes. “You’re gross, Lewis.”

“You love it.”

Harry taps Louis’ chin, turning him to face the open doors to the Entrance Hall. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

Louis lets Harry lead him out again, and they take the long trek up to Harry’s tower. Louis whines nearly the entire time, begging Harry for a hint, _anything_ about what it could be, but Harry just laughs and shakes his head. “You’ll see,” is all he’ll say, to Louis’ unending frustration.

When they finally arrive, Harry takes Louis’ hand and guides him to the balcony. “Okay, close your eyes.”

“Are you serious?”

“Louis, I am _always_ serious. Do it.”

Louis sighs, faux-beleaguered, but does as he’s told. Just to make sure he doesn’t peek (because if anyone would, it’d be Louis) he takes off his gold lamé headscarf and ties it around Louis’ eyes. Louis doesn’t say anything, just gasps pleasantly and reaches up to touch Harry’s hands as he ties it in a bow, careful not to snag any of Louis’ hair.

The first firework fizzles up into the sky and goes off with a loud _pop!_ when Harry’s done with the surprise. It bursts into a red and green star. From below in the courtyard, he can hear everyone going _“oooh”_ , their necks craned to look up. Harry smiles, breathing a little hard, strained from the effort of what he just pulled off. He pulls at the bow at the back of Louis’ head, freeing him.

Louis glances at Harry, blinking. “Okay. So?”

“Find me the Ursas.”

Louis blinks, saying dryly, “Did you lose them all of a sudden?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay.”

Louis looks up. The fireworks keep going off, exploding into different colors and shapes. Silver stars fall as Christmas ornaments flare to life and great burning Catherine wheels spin sparks through the air that rain down on them in magnificent showers.

Louis frowns. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense. They should be right there, right? But they’re not. There’s just that weird, dark cloud.”

“True,” Harry says easily. “Are you ready?”

“For what, exactly?”

He points his wand back at the sky the way he had a moment before. He hears Louis gasp from beside him and he laughs aloud as the cloud dissipates and vanishes, exposing what has newly become of the Ursa constellations. The stars have rearranged themselves, spelling out the words I LOVE YOU LOUIS. Polaris serves as the dot over the I in Louis’ name, twinkling down at them brightly. A purple firework bursts to their right, Louis’ face turning color with it.

“What do you think?” Harry asks.

“Harry, it’s _perfect_.” When he turns, Harry’s surprised to find Louis’ eyes are wet with emotion. “You moved the stars for me.”

“’Course. I said I would, didn’t I?” _I’d do all that and more_ , he thinks. _All for Lou._

“I love you,” Louis says, smiling, wiping at his eyes. “You’re perfect and I’m appallingly mad about you. Marry me?”

“Well, I’ve heard worse proposals,” Harry says, rolling his eyes jokingly. On the inside, however, he feels like those fireworks, made of fire, of light, a primordial force that exists solely to see Louis shine alongside him. Who knew such happiness existed? _Hogwarts_ is _home_ , he thinks to himself, looking at Louis. _So of course that’s where I found Louis._

Louis laughs and drags him in for a kiss, just as the fireworks finale explodes, turning each and every snowflake around them to a jewel of light and it’s everything Harry has ever dreamed of, but better—perfect—because it’s real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -"Chim-Chim-Cher-Ee" is obviously from Mary Poppins  
> -"I Put A Spell On You" is sadly not by Circe Nightshade, but Screamin' Jay Hawkins


	4. home pt. ii

_six months later_

The day of the wedding is bright, gorgeously sunny, and Harry is a whirlwind.

“Oh, Caroline—put those over in the other tent, will you? The one with the pictures. Thank you so much, you’re a goddess.” Harry looks down at his journal, the one scribbled all over with directions and corrections and plans. “Okay, so that’s that, now—hi, Daze, what’s up?”

One of Louis’ twin sisters is standing there in matching floral print dresses. “The streamers are tangled in the tree again,” Daisy says.

“The fucking wind,” Harry catches himself too late and she gapes at him. “Whoops, sorry. Can you take care of it? It’s a simple spell, here, Caroline can show you.” Caroline and the girls dash off towards the trees in the middle of the field, the ones Harry had strung with silk streamers. If the wind doesn’t quit, he’ll have to take those down as well, just like his fairy lights and lanterns. It’s bothersome, but not enough to dampen his joyful spirit that day.

He’s been up since the crack of dawn, much to Louis’ chagrin. The morning began with him downing mugs of coffee and making Louis a hasty breakfast, all while talking loudly to a Quik-Quotes Quill that unfortunately has seen better days; he had to repeat “flower arrangements” three times and it still wrote down “dour arraignments”. He kissed a sleepy, tousle-headed Louis goodbye and was off to the shops in Holmes Chapel for some last minute bits and bobs with Gemma’s bridesmaid and friend, Lou.

When they arrived back at the house, the place was in bedlam without him. Immediately, he enlisted the lads to give him a hand: Liam he tasked with setting up the tables and chairs, Niall the chairs and the aisle, and Zayn with putting together the trellised arch entwined with daisies and sunflowers. While they did that, he acquired the assistance of some cousins and Eleanor’s family to help set up the displays in the pavilions, the magical flowing tents which had, of course, set themselves up. Magic truly is a wonderful thing.

One is set up with a lovely display of framed photos of Gemma and Eleanor as children, and then of course, as a couple. He’d put it together with some Sticking charms. A music box plays continuously inside and there are little spritzers of Amortentia on a three-legged table for people to take for the purpose of scent, rather than consumption. Harry had a hell of a time brewing it (Potions had never quite been his strong suit) but Louis and Lottie had helped him out wonderfully.

In the second one is, of course, the food and drinks; he’s hired a caterer and an open bar for the guests to utilize once the reception is in full-swing. The third tent is a photobooth for guests to take pictures in, complete with all manner of magical masks, hats, and props. He can’t wait to get the lads in there later once the ceremony is over with.

The fourth is chock full of carnival games, such as darts to pop balloons and guess the famous witch or wizard by their nose. Party favors serve as prizes, including bottles of colorful bubbles that don’t pop for days inscribed with G & E on them in flowing script; little paper fans, for when the dancing and running wild grows too hot; as well as some of Weasley Wizard Wheezes products for the kids.

The last pavilion is a fully-stocked candy bar courtesy of Honeyduke’s. That one was Louis’ idea, of course, and Harry has a feeling it's going to be a hit. Because Eleanor works there, they got everything for free with best wishes from the owner, Ambrosius Flume, and his lovely wife.

Of course, for all of that, they had to get through the ceremony first. So far, the jury was still out on that one. 

“Harry, got a mo’?” It’s Lou, looking frazzled and half-dressed.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“It’s Eleanor, she’s having a bit of a meltdown.”

Harry rolls his eyes when Lou isn’t looking. As if there’s time for this. She’s had months to lose her mind, but she chooses _now_ , of all moments. “All right, I’ll go talk to her.”

Ten minutes later he’s in the guest room of his parents’ house, jiggling one foot impatiently and trying his hardest not to tear the lacy garment in his hands to shreds.

“You’re going to be _fine_ ,” Harry says, resisting the urge to look down at his pocket watch. They have about half an hour until they’re set to begin and he still has to go over everything outside once more to make sure everything is shipshape. He wonders how mad Gemma would be at him if he decided to cast a surreptitious Calming Spell on her anxious bride-to-be. 

“But—there’s going to be so many people, from work and from the Daily Prophet because of Gemma, and your _family_.” She paces, the train of her white dress slithering along the floor after her. It’s form-fitting tulle with chantilly lace laid over it in delightful floral patterns, the straps lacy starbursts over her slim shoulders. Her hair is bound up in a braided bun, a glimmering silver headband keeping it all under control, studded here and there with dazzling faux-diamonds.

She’s torn off her half-veil in her panic and it landed too close to a candle, so Harry is repairing it with careful taps of his wand. He’s bent low over it, weaving every fishnet bit back into place. It’s making his eyes hurt.

“I promise, Eleanor, you’re going to get through this. Once you get out there and see Gem, all of this will fall away, I know it will.”

She whirls on him. “But how do you know?”

“Because I just _do_.” He hands her the veil gingerly. “Please be careful with that. If I have to hold it together with any more magic, it might explode.”

She laughs, some of the tension easing out of her shoulders. He touches her hand lightly, sliding his wand into his back pocket. “You’ll be just fine. Now, where’s your bouquet?”

“Um…” She spins in a circle in the guest room, looking around frantically. “Not here.”

Harry holds his hands up quickly. “I’ll go find it, you stay here. I’ll send your mom in, shall I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer; whether she wants it or not, he’s sending the woman in to comfort and deal with her.

He leaves, clutching his journal tightly and opening it to the page where his quill rests. _E bouquet_ , he scribbles down in a long messy list that’s been added to and scratched out so many times that it looks as though it’s been through hell. He traipses down the stairs, squeezing against the wall when a giggling couple of flower girls go past him up to the second story of his mum’s house. Down in the kitchen are the gathered older men and ladies, aunts and uncles, grandparents and parents milling about. His stepdad Robin stops him on his way out, handing him a pouch of coins.

“Yeah, no worries, the band is outside—mm-hm, I’ll give this to them right now, thanks.”

Dodging this way and that, he manages to get out the open front door and to the field alongside the house where it’s all been set up. True to his word, the band is out there, setting up their instruments and musical stands beside the chairs he hovered over for them earlier into the shade of a tree strung with silk streamers. Zayn is there, putting up the fairy lights and little paper lanterns in varying colors now that the wind has died down somewhat. They don’t have time to wait any longer, so it’s now or never. Harry waves at him, saying, “Thank you, you’re a lifesaver!” as he pays the band. Unfortunately, there isn’t time to chat, so he leaves Zayn to it to go check on every pavilion before the ceremony.

“Caroline, that’s great, thank you so much—go ahead and double check the Amortentia bottles for me, will you? Thanks. Where’s Lou? Ah, there you are. Hunt me down Eleanor’s bouquet, will you? She can’t find it. I imagine Sophia will know where it is, she’s with Liam over by the ceremony area. Thanks!”

He pokes his head into the food tent to see the three-tiered cake sitting on a table. “Be _very_ careful with that. And don’t forget the figures, they’re over there on that sideboard…there you go, perfect. I’ll come get you, Sarah, we’ll bring it out later after dinner, all right? I’ll meet you back here before we start serving so we can coordinate that. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t let Niall over here at all before the ceremony is over, that’s an executive order from Gemma.”

The other pavilions are sublime; there’s only one minor issue with some melting chocolate in the candy bar tent and that’s easily solved with a Freezing Charm that takes about two seconds. Harry’s feeling very good, especially when he exits to hear the band warming up, playing the first few chords of the “Bridal Chorus” over and over. He’s starting to feel very excited, his hands shaking just a little bit, his heart swelling and fit to burst. The sun is starting to go down, the afternoon bathed in gold. With him at the helm, this is going to be absolutely perfect; he’s only got one sister, so he’s got to get it all just right.

His watch says there are fifteen minutes until the ceremony is supposed to start so he calls Niall over and asks him to start having the guests sit down. When the shouting and hand-waving starts, Harry flinches and immediately summons Zayn to please muzzle his _ridiculous_ _boyfriend_ and ask everyone to sit down in an orderly fashion.

Badly needing a drink or some kind of encouragement from his boyfriend—no, his _fiancé_ —Harry is on the verge of hunting him down when Lou arrives with Lottie and Sophia, Liam’s girlfriend, clutching Eleanor’s bouquet in her arms. It’s a lovely bunch of white and pink roses that are going to look splendid in her hands.

“Excellent, Lou, thanks so much. Take that to her, will you? And maybe get her with a Calming Spell when she’s not looking, she’s a bit…nervous, to say the least.”

Lou nods and strides off purposefully. Harry crosses some things off in his journal and it looks as if everything is almost good to go.

He stops Niall on his way back to the house, however, just to tie up a few loose ends. “Do me a favor, will you? Switch Eleanor’s grandmother’s name card with someone else’s, apparently her and her aunt don’t get along so they shouldn’t be at the same table. Oh! And hunt down those boxes of crayons that Lou and I bought this morning, put two at every kids’ table.” He snaps his fingers in Niall’s face when his attention begins to wander. “Ni, are you paying attention? _Two_ , at every table! We don’t want any fights starting because two kids both want to use burnt umber. Okay? Then get Zayn to straighten your tie, please, you look a mess.” Niall walks away, grumbling, with Harry calling after him, “Don’t you make faces at me!”

He laughs his way back to the house and inside, up the stairs to Gemma’s room, knowing that his friends will be the most relieved when this wedding is over so they no longer have to deal with “Bridezilla Harry.” He knocks twice when he gets there, waits, and lets himself in. Gemma is standing by the window, their mum Anne up levitating beside her, fiddling with her hair. Jay, Louis’ mum, is in there as well and trying to help as much as possible with a champagne flute in one hand.

“Oh, this is _perfect_ ,” Gemma says, clapping her hands together as she looks out the window. “El is going to lose her mind.”

Jay looks up from where she’s fixing a stitch on Gemma’s dress with her wand. “If the shouting earlier was any indication, I’d say that’s already happened, love.”

“Poor girl,” Anne says, shaking her head. “She’s had a bit of the bride fever, hasn’t she?”

“She’ll be fine once it’s all over with,” Gemma says breezily, “she just has jitters, that’s all. Plus, she only just met you lot a few months ago; can you blame her?”

“Are you saying we’re scary?” Anne asks.

Jay laughs. “Can’t be worse than my bunch. Why do you think we don’t have any neighbors next to our house anymore?”

Harry laughs along with them as he shuts the door behind him, feeling peaceful and unhurried for one of the first times that day.

“Will you _please_ hold still,” Anne asks. She sounds exasperated but she’s smiling against her will. Gemma often inspires that feeling in others, as Harry well knows. He watches, amused, as Gemma trills about Eleanor happily. When it’s clear that Gemma is _not_ going to be still, he gestures to his mother to sit down so he can take over. She hands over what must be an entire package of bobby pins, dumping them into his cupped palms.

“Jay, why don’t you take a break, too? I’ll get her settled,” Harry says and she nods gratefully, the two of them sitting on Gemma’s bed.

Harry really likes Jay. They met over the Christmas holiday when Harry went home with Louis to meet his family and ever since then, they’d gotten along like tea and biscuits. She and his mother had even become best friends, doing just about everything together and visiting often. It makes Harry’s insides go all warm and soft, thinking of their mums going to lunch and shopping in Diagon Alley; he imagines it’ll be even better when the two of _them_ are married. That’s a fair bit off, though. The last thing Harry wants to do is steal any of Gemma’s thunder.

He and Louis have all the time in the world.

With a handful of bobby pins clutched in his mouth, he hovers beside Gemma, patiently enduring her squirming as she goes on.

“You have my bouquet, right? Oh, thanks, Mum. And Lou got her settled and everything? Great. Did you move her grandmother? I told you, they basically had a tiff on the way _here_ , it’s all very inconvenient—”

“Looks like El’s not the only one with bride fever,” Jay says and they all giggle, except for Harry, who has finished with her hair and is now on his knees, bending down to finish the hem. 

With about five minutes left, he’s finally done, standing back up next to Gemma and gently guiding her to stand before her full-length mirror. 

“All right,” Harry says, “All finished. Mothers, please examine at your pleasure.”

Jay and Anne both look up, both of them sighing in unison. Carefully pinned into Gemma’s dyed blonde locks is a wreath of wildflowers. Interspersed with pink marjoram bells are star-shaped pink azaleas and white primroses. Her dress is cream-colored and flowing with uneven silk layers, gold ribbons serving as straps, another one wrapped around her waist and tied at her back in a bow. The hem hangs just above her ankles. She’s barefoot, her toenails painted pink.

Anne hands Gemma her bouquet of fuchsia stargazer lilies and baby’s breath. “Ready?” she asks. Her eyes are already tear-bright, and Harry has to admit there’s quite a lump in his own throat. His sister is the most beautiful he’s ever seen.

Gemma nods excitedly. Harry hugs her quickly, kissing her cheek. “I love you,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Good luck.” And then he’s leading Anne and Jay out of the room and down the stairs.

Their dad, Des, is waiting down there. Harry greets him with a hug, having barely had any time to see him at all that afternoon. “All right, remember, you two are to stay here,” Harry instructs him and Anne. “We’re walking first, then Eleanor and her parents. Wish her luck when you see her.”

“Where are you going?” Anne asks as he sidles towards the door.

“I have to find someone.”

She smiles like she knows and he takes that as a sign that it’s okay for him to dash off. He pockets his journal into the lining of his dress robes, running off into the deepening twilight outside. Everyone is seated in the neat rows of chairs and Harry hunts down the familiar halos of blonde hair that he’s grown to know, kneeling down next to them.

“Fee, where’s your brother?”  

She shrugs, grinning. There’s chocolate smudged on the corner of her mouth.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Uh- _huh_. And if I told you you’ve got chocolate on your mouth?”

She laughs, her eyes wicked and bright even in the dusk light. “Guess!”

“I already know, you little troublemaker.” He decides not to ruffle her hair since Jay has taken the trouble to do it up so nice in little curls. As he walks down the aisle, he checks to make sure everyone has looked under their chair and understand the instructions left; they all seem to know what’s going on, so he heads to the arch and chats with the witch presiding over the ceremony, a lovely stout woman named Philippa with rosy cheeks and round glasses perched on the end of her button nose.

“They’ll be out any moment, I promise,” he says and she pats his arm.

“Not to worry, love, this isn’t my first magic show.” She grins at him. “Your mum tells me you’ll be next.”

Flowers bloom in his stomach, petals tickling him with excitement even as he says, “Yes, I ’spose, if I can find my wayward fiancé.”

“He’s at the candy bar,” Niall says, sauntering over. He’s smacking his lips, his hair mussed a bit. Harry fixes it while he glares at him.

“Is nothing sacred to you?”

“Not when there’s food around, mate.” He claps him on the shoulder and presses a sticky kiss to Harry’s cheek, even as Harry protests and tries to yank away. Luckily, Liam rescues him, dragging Niall off in a loose headlock over to where Zayn is sitting, sinking down in his seat with embarrassment. His friends are amazing.

Harry runs to the candy tent, his robes flapping behind him. Sure enough, Louis and Lottie are there, chatting amiably over champagne glasses filled to the brim with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. He can’t even be mad, not when Louis looks at him with the utmost terror on his face, like he’s been caught standing over a body.

“Erm. She made me,” he says, pointing at Lottie. She gasps and slaps his arm.

“I don’t even care who started it,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “But the wedding’s about to begin in one minute so get yourself over there, _please_.”

Lottie lifts her dress up over her shoes and runs, laughing the entire way. Louis grabs a bean from his glass and offers it to Harry. It’s red, that’s all he can tell about it, and when he raises his eyebrows, Louis shakes his head.

“Not telling,” he says. “Open your mouth.”

Harry does and Louis tosses the bean inside. Harry bites down, making a face as soon as it hits him. _Ugh_. “Cinnamon?”

“Because you’re hot. Get it?”

Harry dissolves into peals of laughter and Louis looks so proud of himself that Harry can’t help it, he kisses him, forgetting all about his worry and their tight schedule. He wonders how long Louis was holding on to that one, but it doesn’t matter, because him even _thinking_ of it in association with Harry means the world to him. Their future is going to be a union of bad jokes, he just knows it—and it’s going to be beautiful.

Harry’s still kissing him when Louis Apparates them over to where the ceremony is about to begin, clinging to him through the rushing air and hurricane of feelings, not even noticing until he hears the polite throat clear beside them and the shower of giggles from the direction of Louis’ numerous sisters.

They break apart and grin guiltily, hands clasped. “Oops,” Louis says, but his tone seems to suggest the exact opposite. He’s wearing pastel blue dress robes, his hair slicked back on the sides and styled up into a posh quiff that Harry really wants to touch, it looks so soft and lovely. There’s not enough time, though; he has to remind himself that the rest of their lives are long and waiting, and he’ll have other chances.

“I’ve got to go, but you’ll wait for me?”

Louis nods. “I’ll be right here.” He stands on his tiptoes to kiss Harry, something that Harry thinks if they’re married for the next _five_ lifetimes, he will never get over.

Harry Apparates back to the house and legs it into the sitting room just in time to see Gemma descend the stairs like some kind of Grecian goddess, the flowers in her hair and the rapturous smile on her face impossibly lovely. She kisses their parents on their cheeks and takes their hands, gesturing at Harry to join their gathering. They stand in a circle that way with Gemma looking at the three of them seriously.

“Thank you all so much for putting this day together,” she says, grinning. “It’s so beautiful and I am so grateful. I love you all loads, you know that, right?”

Anne’s on the verge of tears by the time they’re ready and even Harry is finding it hard to talk. He grabs a champagne flute from a passing caterer and downs it in two gulps, the bubbles going straight to his head.

He’s gasping, eyes watering with the chill of alcohol on his tongue when an usher, a relative of Eleanor’s, pops his head in. “It’s time.”

Gemma squeaks and straightens her bouquet. This is the moment they’ve all been waiting for.

The music strikes up from the band as they exit the house, Gemma holding his hand and their parents walking arm in arm behind them. Everyone stands as they approach the aisle, down which Harry has scattered rose petals. They walk down the aisle together as a family, Gemma laughing at the more emotional friends and relatives already dabbing at their eyes, but she, too, is tearing up. Everyone’s expressions are perfect, Harry thinks, eyes flicking over them as they walk past. They’re soft, glowing and dream-like, as though everyone is in wonderland tonight. _And we are_ , Harry thinks, looking ahead to where Philippa is waiting for them, her glasses misty with tears. Louis is standing off to the right side, hands clasped behind his back.

Harry watches him, watches the way his face changes when he realizes that Harry is looking at him. It becomes like everyone else’s, a sigh of warm delight and contentment, his eyes glazing over and his lips curling up in a secret smile that’s reserved for him alone. Maybe it’s the champagne or just the hype of everything, but a wave of emotion seems to knock Harry’s feet out from under him all at once and as they reach the altar, he’s crying, tears dribbling over his cheeks.

His parents sit down, but he takes his place off to the side with Louis, in the middle of the line of bridesmaids in their rainbow-colored gowns in pastel tones, the ones he picked out with Gemma’s ardent approval. Two of Eleanor’s friends are pink and yellow; Harry is green, Louis blue, Lou lavender.  

Louis takes his hand and leans in close. “You okay, love?”

Harry nods. “Just thinking.”

“Hm?”

“This is going to be _us_.”

Harry can feel Louis grin beside him. “What do you think about fall?”

“It’s perfect, it really is.”

Louis kisses his cheek softly, brushing the tears away with his thumb. “ _You’re_ perfect.”

When it’s Eleanor’s turn to walk down the aisle with her family, the tears begin anew and Louis just squeezes his hands comfortingly, rubbing his finger over the silver engagement band that lights up Harry’s hand.

 _Someday, this will all be ours_.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch. As soon as Philippa pronounces them married and they’ve kissed to everyone’s claps and cheers, Harry waves his wand. From thin air, dozens of white and pink butterflies appear, fluttering about beautifully, flying into the air to form an enormous heart. Everyone gasps appreciatively.

Then, of course, comes the spectacle that requires the guests. As Gemma and Eleanor take each other’s hands and walk down the aisle, everyone stands up to watch them go; as they do, they say a spell that turns the ends of their wands into a sparkler tip in different colors. Gemma and Eleanor shriek with surprise and delight, and by the time they reach the end of the chairs, the entire audience is lit and the photographers that Harry hired are going _wild_. He and Louis can’t do much more than laugh.

And that’s when the fairy lights and lanterns come to life, bathing the purple-dusk field in a warm, gold light. Everyone gathers their food and their drinks (Harry only has one more because soon enough, he’s so silly on his feet that Louis threatens to carry him out of there over his shoulder, the very mental image of which causes Harry to laugh for a good five minutes straight) and everyone does their speeches. Niall’s is funny as well as heartfelt, and Harry recites a bit of poetry that has everyone crying all over again.

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from_   
_where,_   
_I love you simply, without problems or pride:_   
_I love you in this way because I don’t know any other_   
_way of loving_

_but this, in which there is no I or you,_   
_so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,_   
_so intimate that I fall asleep it is your eyes that_   
_close_

“Get that arse off the stage,” Niall shouts and everyone is laughing once more.

The reception turns into a veritable playground then, everyone buzzing off to visit the different pavilions. Harry grabs one of the bottles of Amortentia; when he sprays it on his wrist, it smells like chalk dust, chocolate and cherry, grass from the Quidditch pitch, and Louis’ aftershave. They take pictures in the photobooth, but most of them are just kissing photos that Niall pretends to vomit over, and they (of course) _have_ to go to the candy bar, where Harry gets even worse, if it’s possible, on so many Fizzing Whizzbees that he’s nearly sick in technicolor shades.

They cut the cake, Gemma smashes some in Eleanor’s face, and it ignites the Second Worst Cake War of Harry’s life, but luckily a stern look from their parents manages to calm it down, just as Louis licks some frosting off his cheek. After that, it’s back to the fun and games. Louis disappears to stop a sugar-induced meltdown from happening with one of the girls at his mother’s behest and when he goes looking for Harry again, he finds him at one of the kids’ tables, drawing on the paper tablecloth. It’s a picture of a house with Harry and Louis inside.

As the night winds down, only a handful of people remain. All their friends are gone: Liam and Sophia were leaving for a vacation in Majorca the next day so they had to go early, and Niall and Zayn have spirited off to some bushes somewhere, Harry’s sure of it. All that’s left is them. Gemma and Eleanor are dancing slowly in the middle of the field, but they’re so tired they’re really just rocking and spinning in a circle. Harry and Louis are doing the same, actually, Harry bent to rest his head on Louis’ shoulder. His head is spinning, his lips taste sweet every time he licks them, and his heart is full. It’s been a good day.

“You did an incredible job, Harry. Really, it was so lovely.”

He’s too tired to even open his eyes. “Mm-hm.”

“So, what do you think about October?”

“Works for me.”

Louis lets out a long-suffering sigh and pokes his side. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Me? What’ve I done?”

“I’m trying to plan our wedding here, you know. It’s already summer, we’ve got to start now.”

Harry snuggles in deeper to Louis’ shoulder, speaking against his neck. “Well, it’s going to have to wait, isn’t it? Term will have started by then and we’ll be _so_ busy.”

“Yes, so busy with our—” Louis stops moving all at once. “What did you just say?”

Harry smiles slowly. “It’s going to have to wait?”

“You—” Harry stands up straight, facing him before Louis can poke him again. “What on earth do you mean, we’ll both be busy?”

Harry grins. “Remember how I was sending all those letters to McGonagall? Well, she and I came up with this idea. It’s such a hassle to call someone in when a teacher is sick for a day or two or something, or has an emergency, right? So I suggested staying on as a permanent replacement. Any time a professor falls ill or is called away for something, I’ll be the one to take over. I can’t do every subject as well as the actual teachers, but when that happens, I can at least be there to watch over their students and maybe give them a quick review or something.”

“What if there’s two at once?”

“Then it’s up to McGonagall to find someone, but having to only find one is better than having to find two, don’t you think?” He smiles, gripping Louis by his forearms. “Are you happy? Say you’re happy.”

“I’m _thrilled_ ,” Louis breathes, face breaking like the morning sun, “I _hated_ the idea of you being here or at my place in Doncaster for all those months, it was torture, it’s been weighing on me forever—but wait, what about the wedding?”

“Well, I’m up for trying to pull it off before term if you are. Don’t you like a challenge?”

Louis stares at him, grinning, unabashedly enchanted. “I am the luckiest man in the world to be with you, d’you know that?”

“Yeah, I do.” Harry kisses his nose. “Just like I’m the luckiest man to be with _you_.”

Louis sighs again suddenly. “Thanks for that. How am I supposed to keep dancing with you when all I want to do is tear your clothes off and celebrate this properly later?”

Harry tilts his head to the side, seriously considering. “I suppose you could always do it now.”

“Could I? At your own sister’s wedding?” When Harry nods, Louis gasps. “You _rebel_.”

“It’s statistically proven that wedding sex between those not _actually_ getting married at the time is the best sex. Probably. Somewhere. By wizards of _science_.”

Louis hums appreciatively. “Oh, I’m sure. All right, then. Stay here. Close your eyes and count to twenty.”

“Are we playing?”

Louis’ eyes sparkle. “Always, starshine. Come find me.” With that, he’s gone, running away, pale blue robes whipping behind him, growing fainter in the darkness.

Harry watches him go, refusing to close his eyes for this because that sight is the best, most perfect way for their life together to start. He never knew it was possible to be _this_ happy, but it has to be because he feels it all the time; maybe it’s not all day, this feeling, but every single day is a happy one for him. He’s never been so lucky, so blessed, as he is now.

He looks up at the sky, finding Polaris easily. Only then does he let his eyes drift closed.  

For Harry and Louis, it’s only the beginning of something magical, something _great_. 

He smiles.

“One.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you... - Pablo Neruda; Sonnet XVII
> 
> the end!!! i really hope you enjoyed this and i'm so sorry if there are glaring mistakes, i tried my best with the help of my darling beta K to catch them all


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